


Ephemera

by iridiumring92



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Ardyn is a manipulative bastard, Assassin AU, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Deaths, Past Psychological Trauma, Still takes place in Insomnia, Torture, assassin!Ignis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-11-05 19:59:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 54,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11020521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iridiumring92/pseuds/iridiumring92
Summary: Ignis Scientia, one of Ardyn Izunia's finest assassins, has been sent to dispatch Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum. And he is unfortunate enough to fail.





	1. Chapter 1

When Ignis was twelve and lost, wandering through the Crown City with no one to accompany him, the shadows had come to life. The silhouettes of people in black, the glint of a blade in each of their hands, had surrounded him, closing in until he had nowhere to run. Gloved hands had pinned his arms behind his back, shoved a blade against his throat. A dark, raspy voice had spoken in his ear.

“Scream, and you’re dead.”

He might have raised his voice anyway, since he could no longer find a reason to live, but at the same time he was too afraid of what dying would feel like. The cold steel that pressed against his throat warned him that it wouldn’t be pleasant.

In the midst of this, the man in the cloak had appeared. His hair was a sort of deep red color, like blood, and he wore a hat that masked his eyes, but when he looked up from under the brim of that hat, his eyes were cold.

“Stand down,” he’d said, smirking, to the others, who had seemed to shrink back from his presence. And then, to Ignis: “I can save you. . . . _If_ you’ll do as I ask.”

Ignis didn’t remember much of the conversation that followed, but he’d agreed to whatever terms the man had presented. And now, ten years later, he knew those terms by heart.

_The steel is your guide, yet you will bow to none but me. You will carry out my orders unconditionally. Should you fail, you will accept the punishment. Should you leave, you will speak to no one, and you will dispose of your own life, or let one of your fellow assassins do it for you._

_Should you raise a hand—that is, a blade—against one of your fellow assassins, well,_ the man, their employer, added some days with that insufferable smirk creeping across his lips, _I don’t suppose I have anything to do with that, now do I?_

And there had, inevitably, been assassinations within the group, some the product of jealousy, some of betrayal, some of revenge. But Ignis had tried to stay out of the way, and he’d managed to survive the last ten years.

He’d considered leaving some days, but every time he did, those words rang in his head. _You will dispose of your own life, or let one of your fellow assassins do it for you._ His life would be forfeit anyway, and he didn’t desire death. Days became weeks became months became years. And here he stood.

 _Here_ happened to be in front of the mirror in his quarters that morning, when he looked up and saw that beside his reflection was a face other than his own. He’d trained himself not to show surprise. His eyes only skated sideways, meeting those of his employer. He did not say a word, not even to ask how the man had managed to slip into his quarters without him noticing.

“Scientia,” said Ardyn Izunia, the corner of his mouth already curving into a smirk, his voice sending prickles of slow dread up Ignis’s spine, “I have some very important work for you.”

 

* * *

 

There were nights when he couldn’t sleep. When each blink of his eyes, each slip into darkness yielded intrusive memories of past kills, when he could _feel_ the blood on his hands and he woke, heart racing, in sweat-drenched sheets. He never cried out, but often the silence seemed to take him by the throat.

There had been nights, too, in past years, when he’d wanted someone at his side in the unfathomable dark. But those times had passed. Now he guessed that feeling the heat of another body would only contribute to his terror and confusion upon waking.

Not that he’d abstained from taking anyone to his bed—Ardyn had made it clear he didn’t care about any of that—but he’d started to fear that he would mix up his targets with the people he tried to keep close to him. By nature, those were both pursuits that took place in the dark. It would be all too easy for his exhausted mind to confuse them.

Sometimes, to clear his head, he’d leave his room and take walks, either within the building or outside. Or he’d take the rusty fire escape up to the roof and sit under the night sky for a while. He’d heard that outside of the city, hundreds and hundreds of stars were visible.

Though from the top of the building he could only count a few, the stars served as a reminder for him. A reminder that he could only see part of whatever was truly out there.

 

* * *

 

Ardyn had sent him out on important jobs before. Jobs revolving around targets who seemed to know something was going on, who wove unpredictable paths through the Crown City or were rarely alone. Jobs on which he stayed out for days, subsisting on cigarettes and coffee, anxiously counting the hours until Ardyn would think he’d deserted and send someone after him. He’d never failed to take down a target, but those jobs had left him exhausted, and when he’d returned to the warehouse he’d slept for days.

He wanted this job least of all. As he lay staring at the ceiling and wondering how he’d drawn such a short straw, his subconscious began to turn over the ways he could complete the work. By blade or bullet, or perhaps some elaborate accident. He was best with blades, but he had no idea how he would manage to infiltrate the building and get close enough to use them.

Ardyn’s words still rang in his head.

“Your target,” he’d said, almost mocking, “is Crown Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum.”

Since then Ignis had wondered why, if he had such an important target in mind, Ardyn hadn’t just taken on the job himself. He’d praised the skills of his assassins before, but only alongside the disclaimer that none of them was better than him. So why leave his clearly personal agenda in the hands of apparently inferior assassins? It was as if he were daring Ignis to fail.

Perhaps it wasn’t so much a job as a death sentence.

Ignis exhaled a long breath. If he wanted to keep his life, he would have to take the life of another. Those were the rules of the game—they always had been. And he’d spent the past ten years of his life wondering over and over whether he wanted to play, only to make the same decision every time.

He couldn’t forfeit. If he did, he’d just be giving Ardyn an automatic excuse to dispose of him.

And so to distract himself, he closed his eyes and started to sketch out a plan.

 

* * *

 

Insomnia and its blasted rain.

Ignis swept stray strands of hair out of his face and squinted into the murky dusk. He could barely see the outlines of the Citadel through the dark and the spattering rain. And he _really_ wished he didn’t need his glasses so much, because right now they were making it worse rather than better. The rain kept collecting on the lenses and warping the view beyond them.

He was crouched on the balcony of a building opposite the Citadel. The lookout wasn’t as close as he would have liked, as the space around the Citadel was mostly gated, paved by labyrinthine roads, and patrolled by guards. But he could see the silhouettes of people and cars arriving and departing, and so far, he’d been pretty certain he could identify them. Members of the Crownsguard. Soldiers from the Kingsglaive. A couple of staff Ardyn had flagged years ago and never explained or made targets of.

And, of course, Crown Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum.

He’d taken his time, but there he stood, escorted by a couple of Kingsglaive soldiers. The three of them stopped beside a sleek black car idling at the curb. Ignis memorized every detail that he could see at this distance: his unruly dark hair, his black clothes, the way he moved.

One of the soldiers opened the car’s passenger door, and the prince slid inside, disappearing from sight. Ignis was on his feet. If he didn’t find a way to follow that vehicle, tonight was lost. And he didn’t want to keep Ardyn waiting.

He set his foot on the railing of the balcony and propelled himself across the gap, using his momentum to move to the next balcony and the next. His body knew the motions from his years of work and training, and he lapsed into them quickly, letting the muscle memory take over. When he reached the last balcony, he climbed over the railing and made his way down by dropping from one platform to the next. He cast a glance over his shoulder before he went too low and caught a glimpse of the car. It waited at the gates of the Citadel, the driver’s window rolled down, the man in the front seat speaking to the soldiers there.

On the ground, he wasted no time. He became a shadow, slipping between buildings until he reached the spot where he’d parked. One of Ardyn’s few vehicles—a relatively new, well-maintained, and inconspicuous black Audi—was essentially licensed to him, as long as he continued to carry out his missions. Ardyn had been letting him take it out ever since one of the others had taught him to drive. He guessed it had been around age fourteen or fifteen, as part of his training. It had been awkward at first, but he’d learned to feel comfortable behind the wheel.

Unlocking the driver’s door, he slid into the front seat and jammed the key into the ignition. The engine didn’t even so much as protest when he hit the gas a heartbeat later. He'd navigated the narrow back streets so many times that he barely gave the process any thought, and before long, he was out on Insomnia’s wide main roads.

Pushing the car to a speed slightly faster than the city’s mandated limits, Ignis followed the streets to the front of the Citadel and scanned the cars ahead of him. Just before he could conclude that he’d wasted one too many seconds and lost the prince’s car, he glimpsed another black Audi disappearing around the next corner. The light at the intersection ahead of him turned yellow and he sped through it.

 _Calm down,_ he reminded himself as he began to finally tail the prince and his driver. _It’s just an assignment._ But his heart was racing, his hands were cold, and he didn’t know how to make it stop.

He hadn’t been this nervous about a job in years. At first, of course, he’d had to practice calming his nerves daily, had to develop techniques to quickly eliminate any anxiety. But as years passed he’d stopped needing them altogether. Work was work. A target was a target. He’d become used to it.

So why were his hands tingling? He gripped the wheel tighter, focusing on the car ahead of him.

He’d passed a few cars in his haste to catch up, but he didn’t want to draw attention, so he eased off the gas. _Focus._ He could almost see the prince’s silhouette, and he backed off a little more, until he could no longer make out the shapes in the rear window.

What had he done in the past? Deep breaths? Reminding himself it would be okay? He doubted either of those things would help, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t honestly seem to remember what he’d done to calm himself down before.

The car in front of him turned a few corners and rolled to a stop just outside the entrance to a tall apartment building. Ignis drove past it and parked a few blocks down, keeping an eye on his mirrors. The prince got out of the car, cast a lazy wave in the direction of the driver, and pushed past the doors.

 _I’ve got you,_ Ignis thought.

The other Audi cruised past him, and Ignis took his time leaving Ardyn’s car behind, stowing the keys so they wouldn’t make any noise, slipping back into the shadows. He'd wait. The hour would grow late, he would blend in, and no one would look twice at him when he found his way into the prince’s apartment.

First he had to discern the number. He waited a moment outside as another man and a woman entered in front of him, and he strode into the building in their wake. He was in work clothes, which meant all black. Not that his regular wardrobe was much different. But whenever he needed to step out in public during an assignment, he ended up feeling a little self-conscious about his attire. A younger version of him might’ve looked a little rebellious, but a grown man in full black, walking in like he owned the place? Much more likely to raise suspicion. He could only hope he escaped the landlord's notice.

Ignis’s eyes caught movement as a door at the edge of the lobby swung closed, and he headed for it when he saw the sign that read _Stairs._ The prince must have gone through that door. He just had to make sure they didn’t meet in the stairwell.

He kept his steps in time with the ones he heard above him, listening for the sound of a door closing to gauge which floor the prince had likely stopped on. By the time he heard the telltale metallic click, Ignis calculated that there were only two floors left, and the sound was too distant to have come from the floor directly above him. He picked up the pace on the last two flights.

Moments later, he entered a brightly lit hallway.

The prince stood at the door to one of the rooms, his head down as he worked the key in the lock. Ignis paused to memorize the apartment’s location. As he did, he weighed his options: he could move now, fake knowing where he was going and pretend everything was fine, or he could remain here like a shadow and hope the prince didn’t notice him.

He chose the former, turning his back to the prince and beginning to walk in the opposite direction just as the key and the lock came to an agreement. Ignis glanced over his shoulder in time to see the prince vanishing into his apartment, closing the door behind him.

Now Ignis had only to wait.

 

* * *

 

The building wasn’t what Ignis had expected, somehow. He’d imagined an expensive high-rise with suites that covered entire floors, like the apartments Ardyn had often asked him to infiltrate before. This place was nicer than anything he would’ve ever been able to afford, of course, but it wasn’t the first place he would’ve looked to find the Crown Prince of Lucis.

At least Ardyn had known about the rumors that the prince lived outside the Citadel. Without that knowledge, Ignis wasn’t sure he would have ever made it here. Perhaps by chance, he would have seen the prince leaving the place where the royal family stayed, but it was equally as likely that he would’ve waited for hours there in an empty room. Mysterious and threatening as Ardyn was, he knew his shit. Ignis had to give him that, however reluctantly.

The hallway was quiet. Ignis found himself wondering if anyone else even lived there. Still, he made sure to conceal himself in the shadows so that if another resident came into the hallway, he wouldn’t be easily spotted.

After a while, the light under the prince’s door went out.

Ignis moved, each step taking him closer to the prince’s apartment. Normally, this would have been the part where his body focused, where every process seemed to become a catalyst to his work. His heartbeat would even out, his nerves would calm, and the world would go quiet. But none of that happened now.

His heart was racing. He could hear it pounding in his ears and feel it at the tips of his fingers. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t focus past it.

He willed his hands to stop shaking as he neared the door. If he wanted to leave the silence undisturbed, if he wanted to keep his presence there unknown, he had to remain absolutely silent. And that meant unlocking the door without a sound. He clasped his hand around the lockpick he kept in his pocket until he was sure his knuckles were white and took a breath to steady himself. Three swift movements later, the door was unlocked, and he was inside.

The apartment was pitch black—the prince had made no attempt to provide light for the day’s darkest hours, which Ignis found rather strange, though it certainly made it easier for him. He moved little at first and waited for his eyes to adjust.

The prince might not be in deep sleep yet. Ignis would have to be careful, and wait until he knew he wouldn’t be discovered. He reached for the handle of one of his ever-present knives, hidden at his waist and beneath his jacket. The smooth, familiar handle seemed to stabilize him. He was going to make it through this job. He had to. He _had_ to.

He crept through the apartment, each step utterly silent and lasting an eternity. He felt time start to slide past him the way it always did when he was waiting for a target, and the sensation gave him a bit more courage.

Easing open the closed bedroom door—over his many years of work under Ardyn, he’d developed a knack for both knowing where the bedroom door was and opening it without so much as a creak—Ignis slipped into the prince’s room. His slim form was concealed beneath sheets, and he lay on his side with his back turned toward the door. Didn’t they know, Ignis wondered, what happened to people who slept in completely unguarded rooms and kept their backs to the door? Then—was there a chance this was all a setup?

The prince stirred, and Ignis froze where he stood, his hand still on the doorknob. But he appeared to have just shifted in his sleep. Ignis moved closer. He drew the knife from the sheath at his waist.

He would make it quick. No need to draw things out, when he didn’t even know whether this was an assignment or a trap, when he didn’t really want to cause the prince suffering.

The blade was near invisible in the dark, and slowly, Ignis raised it over the prince’s unconscious form. He would aim for the throat. After that, it would all be over in seconds. . . .

He gasped and jerked backwards, dropping the knife to the carpeted floor. Bolts of white-hot pain shot up his spine and sliced outward through what felt like every one of his nerves. He fell to the ground, barely able to keep from screaming.

What _was_ this? He had to fight to form the thought. He’d never felt anything even remotely like this before. Of course, he had his share of scars from near-mortal wounds he’d sustained in the past, but none of them had come with the same paralyzing agony. He tried to fight back, but it was no use. He remained on the floor, the side of his face pressed against the soft carpet. Like a puppet with its strings cut.

Divine retribution, he thought. The gods were going to finally strike him down for all the things he’d done. He wasn’t meant to survive this mission. He’d die here.

His last thought before the pain pushed him into unconsciousness was that he hadn’t been given a chance to redeem himself. But then again, maybe he didn’t deserve one.

 

* * *

 

Nearly a heartbeat after Ignis finished delivering the news of his assignment, the back of Ardyn’s hand connected with his face. The force of the blow sent him to the floor. His glasses skidded across the stone several feet away.

“Did I not stress to you, Scientia,” Ardyn said in a voice that exuded nothing but deadly calm, “the importance of this assignment?” He began to walk in slow circles around the place where his subordinate assassin crouched on the cold floor. “You have never dared fail me. Never once. And yet you choose now to come back without having killed your target.”

A flash of Ardyn’s hand, and Ignis felt cold steel at his throat. He couldn’t breathe.

“Did you wonder what it felt like?” Ardyn asked. “To be at the end of that blade? Did you find yourself having second thoughts? Or, perhaps, _sympathy_?”

“No, I—”

Ignis registered the hot spike of pain in his cheek several heartbeats before he understood that the very blade in Ardyn’s hand had struck him. He reached up to brush his fingers against his burning cheekbone, and they came away stained crimson with blood.

“Get up, Scientia.”

Ignis, staring at his hand, hesitated. Ardyn stepped closer, twisted a hand in Ignis’s hair, and pulled. Caught off guard, Ignis grimaced and stumbled to his feet. He couldn’t quite keep the small sound of pain from escaping the back of his throat.

“Weak,” Ardyn accused. There was no hint of kindness, no sign of reprieve, in his eyes. “I cannot allow this.”

He backhanded Ignis across the face again, in the same place where the blade had rent Ignis’s skin just moments ago. Blood sprayed into the air and over the floor. Ignis winced, his hand flying to protect his face, but Ardyn caught his wrist and twisted his arm behind his back.

“Please,” Ignis managed, his voice rasping in protest and from disuse. “I c-can explain. If you’ll just let me.”

“You do not get to explain, Scientia.” Ardyn put more pressure on his arm, and Ignis sucked in a breath at the resulting stab of pain. “I gave you an assignment and you failed to complete it. Those are the unfortunate facts of this case.”

He let go, shoving Ignis abruptly to the floor and beginning to circle him slowly again. Like a vulture making a claim on a corpse.

“Please, a moment.” Ignis looked up, daring to meet Ardyn’s eyes again. “Someone interfered. I must have been sabotaged.”

“Casting blame, now, are we?” Ardyn shook his head. “What’s happened to you, Scientia? I always believed you were flawless. Ah, but it seems that era has passed.”

After that, the blows came without warning and without stopping. The first kick to his ribs sent Ignis sprawling across the cold floor, and he lost count of the ones that followed. He tried to push himself to his feet, but Ardyn planted a boot across his hand, stopping just short of breaking bones. Ignis cried out and gave up resisting.

The endless blows to his ribs had his entire torso protesting, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up with his arms around his knees, but he knew he couldn’t. He had to take it. He could not show any more weakness.

Still, he felt himself losing consciousness, and he wanted so much to sink into that darkness beyond. He wanted to give up completely, to relinquish control if it only meant an end to the pain.

But Ardyn knew just when to stop.

Ignis realized the blows weren’t coming anymore, and he turned his head to see if Ardyn still stood by. Instead he began to cough and couldn’t stop, and that telltale coppery tang filled his mouth. He spat blood onto the floor in front of him.

Finally he twisted to look at Ardyn, whose mouth had curved into the beginnings of a satisfied smirk.

“Oh, does it hurt?” His voice went soft with false sincerity, and he bent down, so that he was nearly close enough to whisper in Ignis’s ear. “That’s what happens when you don’t do what’s asked of you, Scientia.”

Ignis didn’t trust himself to speak. His mouth tasted of blood and he knew if he tried to respond he would just collapse into another coughing fit. He knew Ardyn could see his struggle, and he saw that this only broadened the smirk on his lips.

“You’re tired. We’ll talk tomorrow,” Ardyn said, placing a hand on Ignis’s shoulder. Ignis was in too much pain to even try to shake him off.

After a moment, Ardyn stood up and turned his back on his subordinate assassin, leaving him lying there on the cold floor in his own blood. He waved a hand almost dismissively, calling without looking back, “Good night, Scientia,” and disappearing into the shadows of the keep.

As soon as the sound of Ardyn’s footsteps faded into nothing, Ignis let go, allowing the tension to seep out of his muscles and his eyes to close. He wouldn’t make it back to his quarters tonight—he didn’t have the energy to try. Besides, he hadn’t expected to live to this moment, anyway. He’d thought the gods had decided to strike him down at the bedside of the Crown Prince of Lucis. Yet he’d woken in the same place he’d collapsed, all traces of pain having vanished.

Perhaps it would be a mercy to bleed out here.

 

* * *

 

This was not the first time that Ignis had witnessed Ardyn’s cruelty. In a way, he’d sort of been waiting to accidentally step into the path of that violence for the last ten years. He’d imagined that one day Ardyn would simply have no more use for him, and discard him like a broken weapon. That he was still breathing was a miracle, even if he did _feel_ like death.

He leaned against the wall in the infirmary, his shirt lying in a heap on the table beside him, all of his old scars and new bruises and lacerations showing. He crossed his arms over his chest experimentally, but the motion aggravated his aching ribs. Instead he let his hands fall to his sides.

“You look awful,” observed the woman standing across from him.

Ignis closed his eyes and let out a sigh of displeasure, torn between replying with _I know_ and a sarcastic _Thank you._ He settled for remaining silent.

“Ardyn really went to work on you.” He heard her take a few steps closer and stop, and when he opened his eyes again, he found her looking right back, tossing a roll of bandages into the air. Silver-blond hair framed a face whose lips had curved in a sort of sad-sympathetic smile, and she wore an outfit of black armor. “Well? Do you want me to help patch you up or not?”

“Fine.” Ignis stepped away from the wall, and she studied him, likely assessing the worst of the wounds. He closed his eyes again, uncomfortable at the attention.

“You just _barely_ got away without stitches,” she said. “Things could have been a lot worse for you.”

“I’m almost certain he broke a rib.”

“Probably just bruised.” She pulled a length of bandages across his torso, and he tried not to wince. “You’re gonna be fine. You’ll be back out in the field in no time.”

“Aranea.”

She paused, and when her eyes met his, he glimpsed a trace of concern in her face behind the annoyance. “I told you, Highwind is fine. Just because we—”

“I failed an assignment.” His voice stayed low, the words burning his throat.

She raised her eyebrows. “And?”

“What happens now?” Ignis asked. “Will I be given a second chance?”

Aranea rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. This is new to you,” she said, each word deliberate and mocking. “You have a pretty clean record. He’s not going to want to get rid of you just because of this one time.” She returned her attention to the bandages.

 _Should you fail, you will accept the punishment._ “Right.”

“Seriously, don’t worry about it,” Aranea said. When Ignis didn’t respond, she shook her head, securing the bandages and cutting them free of the rest of the roll with a pair of scissors. “I forgot. You worry about everything, don’t you?”

Ignis took a step back from her and ran a hand through his hair. “I should go.”

“You sure you don’t want help with anything else?” She gestured to his arms and torso with the roll of bandages.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, crossing to the table and pulling his shirt back on. “Thank you.”

Aranea caught his shoulder before he could leave. “Hey,” she said. “You look like you could use a drink, Ignis. I can take you out for one sometime, if you want.”

“And since when are we going out drinking together?”

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” she said, planting one hand on her hip. “I’m just asking for your sake. If you wanna get wasted and have someone there to drag your ass home later, I can do it. That’s all.” She shrugged. “I know how it feels to fuck up a job. And how it feels to get the shit beaten out of you by Ardyn.”

Ignis didn’t say anything. Of course he wanted to get out of the keep, get drunk out of his mind, forget the pain from his wounds and the fact that he’d ever seen the Crown Prince of Lucis. But he wasn’t interested in having Aranea witness that, regardless of what she’d already seen of him.

“I know,” he said. “I’ll pass.”

“If you say so.” She tossed him the bandages. “You might need the rest of these.”

He turned his back on her and left the infirmary without another word.

 

* * *

 

Ignis dreamed of the Crown Prince of Lucis.

He hadn’t stood over the prince very long, and he’d been more focused on the polished blade of the knife than on the prince’s shadowed face, but he woke time and time again thinking of Noctis Lucis Caelum.

The pictures that Ardyn had shown him so that he would be able to locate his target, the glimpse he’d gotten of the prince’s face while he’d stood in his apartment, that knife poised to rend his flesh, to spill his blood in those sheets. . . . Those images crowded his mind until he thought they’d be burned into his vision forever.

Without the pain that had wracked him at that last crucial second—would he have done it? He didn’t know. And that not knowing haunted him more than any of his previous kills.

Besides that, in the back of his mind, he still waited for Ardyn to strike a second time, despite Aranea’s reassurances. His whole body ached, he couldn’t sleep, and fear made his muscles taut, one hand always stretched toward the knife he kept under his pillow.

After a few hours of this, he gave up. He wouldn’t sleep tonight and there were still several hours until dawn.

So he threw on his jacket and stepped out into the streets of Insomnia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaannnd here we go! Hello everyone ~
> 
> Just thought I'd throw this first chapter out there. I'm currently working on two major projects at once, so I don't know when the next update will be, but I'll try to post as soon as I can. In the meantime, feel free to contribute your thoughts on this chapter! I'd love to hear them!
> 
> (And I low-key need motivation to keep working, lol)


	2. Chapter 2

The bar was dimly lit and crowded and noisy, and though it was the perfect place to disappear, it was also the last place Ignis wanted to find himself.

He’d sat at a table in the corner, where he could see the rest of the room but was unlikely to be seen himself, and he kept his head down, half wishing he had a hood. He’d just have to hope that no one decided to strike up a conversation—though he guessed he looked more like the type to start a bar fight than a conversation. He could still feel the wound marring his cheekbone where Ardyn had cut him.

Every so often he glanced up to watch people passing by, and it was only after his vision had started to swim that Ignis saw _him_ : moving through a crowd of people with a drink in his hand, clad in dark clothing, his hair falling into his eyes under the brim of a baseball cap. Trailed by another young man, about the same height, with blond hair that stuck up all over the place.

The Crown Prince of Lucis.

_No_ , Ignis thought. He had to be seeing things—he must be too far gone already. There was no way the Crown Prince would show his face in a seedy bar like this one. Too many people would know him. Wouldn’t they?

The prince’s doppelganger and the blond kid stopped near the counter, standing at a crossroads between several packed tables, and the prince’s doppelganger turned to face his blond counterpart, who shrugged. The one who looked like the prince scanned the room, perhaps looking for a few empty chairs. Besides the one seat across from him at his table, Ignis didn’t see any.

He looked to Ignis’s side of the room, and their eyes met. Ignis’s heart stalled. For that short second, he was looking into the eyes of the Crown Prince, those beautiful blue eyes—eyes that would never have opened again, had Ignis followed through with the job he’d promised Ardyn he’d do. . . .

The prince said a few words to his blond friend, and just moments later he was striding for Ignis’s table, a slight smirk gracing his lips. Ignis froze. No, there was no way the prince could recognize him, not when he’d been asleep the entire time. He couldn’t have known about the knife that had almost opened his throat. He couldn’t have known that Ignis had been there that night.

The prince’s friend shouted after him, and though his words got lost in the noise of the bar, it looked like he was saying, “Noctis! What are you doing? Wait!” The prince looked over his shoulder, waved a dismissive hand, and said something Ignis couldn’t hear.

Moments later, he stood at the edge of Ignis’s table, setting his drink down and bracing his hands against the warped wood.

“Hey.”

Ardyn’s voice rang in Ignis’s ears, as it did when he was on an assignment. _Should you be approached outside of an assignment, never reveal your work. Never assume that anyone knows what deeds you have carried out._

“Evening,” he said carefully, hoping his words didn’t slur.

The prince leaned closer, and Ignis went still. Even in the dim light, he was breathtaking. The shadows outlined his cheekbones, the gentle curve of his mouth, and his gaze was intent, focused.

“You look really familiar,” the prince said.

_Six, no._ Ignis forced himself not to clench his hands into fists, not to grit his teeth or say anything confrontational, not to show any reaction whatsoever. “You must be mistaken.”

“Mmm, I don’t think so. I’ve seen you before.” He glanced at the seat across from Ignis. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Of course not,” Ignis said. Yet he felt as if the floor was about to slide out from under him, as if this were all some elaborate cosmic joke. The prince was still looking at him, with a mixture of curiosity and . . . interest? Not the type of look Ignis would have expected he’d direct at the man who’d almost assassinated him.

“You’re Ignis Scientia, aren’t you?” the prince asked, his voice low. “My dad knew your uncle, I think. And I remember you.”

“Remember me . . . from when?” Ignis replied, hating that he stumbled over the words.

“A long time ago. I don’t remember exactly.” The prince shrugged, the smallest hint of a smile forming on his lips. “You don’t remember me? I guess we would’ve been pretty young.”

_He doesn’t mean the time I almost killed him,_ Ignis thought, and the tightness in his chest eased. But as soon as he was able to process what the prince was saying, he realized the words didn’t make any sense. They couldn’t have met when they were younger. Ignis had lived practically on the streets until Ardyn had taken him in and given him work. He’d certainly never seen the inside of the Citadel, and he hadn’t seen the prince in real life until he’d been given that assignment to kill him.

“I don’t. My apologies.” Ignis adjusted his glasses. “Are you certain you haven’t mistaken me for someone else?”

Though that wouldn’t explain why the prince knew him by name. Unless his uncle had mentioned him at some point while the prince was within earshot.

“Pretty sure,” the prince said. “You’ve got the same eyes, for one thing. And the glasses.”

In that moment, Ignis was looking into the prince’s eyes. His deep blue eyes, and all their attention, were directed straight at him, and he realized with a start just how much he wanted to be the center of the prince’s attention at all times. The casual way the prince addressed him, that smile that had crossed his lips . . . Things he could never get from the assassins with whom he worked. Ignis wanted to seal himself into this moment.

“ _Noct!_ ” a voice shouted, and Ignis looked up to see the prince’s blond friend from earlier standing next to the table. Either he’d waited a minute to see if the prince would finish up this conversation quickly, or he’d had to fight his way through the crowds. Ignis hadn’t been watching. “What’re you doing? I thought you said we were going to find a table with _two_ open seats.”

“Sorry. Got distracted.” He glanced back at Ignis, who had felt the loss of his attention like a cold breeze. “Just—give me another minute. Do you mind, uh, looking around for another table?” He flashed an apologetic smile.

The blond rolled his eyes. “Noct,” he said, a little more quietly. He opened his mouth as if to say something else, and then he glanced at Ignis and closed it again. Finally he settled on, “Who . . . is this?”

“A friend,” the prince said. “I’ll be there in a minute, Prompto, I promise.”

“All right, fine,” the blond—Prompto—sighed. He turned and left them, disappearing once again into the crowd.

Unease twisted in the pit of Ignis’s stomach suddenly. He didn’t know if the prince was one for temporary conquests, for taking strangers or near-strangers to his bed, or whether that was where this conversation was leading. He didn’t know if he would be able to stand knowing that this had happened to gods knew how many people before him, knowing that while he’d have the prince’s attention for a night, he may never do so again.

“Sorry about that,” the prince said. “I should, uh . . . I should probably go, actually. But I—sorry. I forgot to introduce myself. Noctis.” He glanced around the table, found a discarded pen next to a couple of menus and used it to scribble something on a napkin. “Here. It’s, um. My number. In case you wanted to talk again.”

“Thank you,” Ignis said quietly, and the prince—no, Noctis—gave him a little nod as he pushed his chair back and vacated the table, taking his drink with him.

He folded the napkin into his hand, not bothering to read the number on it. The crushing despair came after Noctis vanished from sight. His throat painfully tight, Ignis realized that he should have stopped him before he could disappear.

Ardyn had never allowed him a cell phone.

He wouldn’t be able to call Noctis back.

 

* * *

 

Ignis staggered into Ardyn’s office early the next morning, responding to a summons that Aranea had not-so-subtly delivered to him by knocking loudly on the door to his quarters. His head hurt like hell, and he decided he would have rather stayed asleep for another three days straight than endure whatever Ardyn had practically resurrected him from the dead to put him through.

“Scientia,” he greeted Ignis as per usual, standing up behind his desk and bracing his hands across it. “It has occurred to me that we have some business to discuss.”

“And what business would that be?” Ignis nearly winced at the sound of his own voice, rough from disuse and probably the alcohol.

Ardyn stepped around the desk, keeping his eyes on the floor, his expression contemplative. “This last assignment,” he began. “I just don’t think I’ve quite forgiven you for it.”

Ignis was on the ground before he could even register the blow.

“That’s so you remember me,” Ardyn said, “while you spend your next seven days outside this place.”

_Seven days._ An entire week outside the keep? Ignis hadn’t spent that long trying to live on his own since he was a child. He didn’t know if he’d remember how to survive on the streets. He closed his eyes, focused on the feel of the cold floor against his cheek, tried to make sure his breathing stayed steady.

“Get up,” Ardyn said. “I have seen enough of this weakness from you.”

Ignis pushed himself to his feet and found Ardyn’s hands on his shoulders, voice close to his ear as he spoke next.

“When you return,” Ardyn began, “you will be stronger than when you left. No more failing to take orders or dispatch your targets. You will be the flawless weapon I have always needed in my arsenal.” He reached around Ignis to place a hand against his neck, his thumb stroking a warning across the column of his throat. “If not, I will make sure you regret it. Do you understand?”

Ignis felt the threat more than heard it. “Yes, sir.”

“Then get out.” Ardyn shoved him aside, and he stumbled in his haste to escape the office.

When the door slammed shut behind him, Ignis stopped to lean against the wall, pressing his hands to his temples. First the assignment, then his meeting with the prince, and now this. He’d have to prepare himself, because from here, things could only get worse.

He went back to his quarters to get his jacket, and after that he left, not wanting to be seen by Ardyn. The late-morning air was a little cold, and around the keep, the streets were deserted. Ignis climbed the fire escape of a nearby building and stood on its roof, scanning the city around him. He could still see the building that served as Ardyn’s keep from there. Turning away and keeping low, he moved to the next roof, and the next, until the invisible tethers always pulling him back to the keep seemed to dissolve.

The roof on which he’d stopped had an access door, protruding from the top of the building and surrounded by concrete walls which likely housed the last flight of stairs. Wanting to stay hidden, Ignis slid to the ground with his back to one wall and closed his eyes. He could still feel Ardyn’s hands on his throat.

He lit a cigarette, clamped it between his lips, willed his body to stop shaking. _Inhale._ Last night the Crown Prince of Lucis had given him his number. Even the night before, even the _many_ nights before when he’d studied the pictures Ardyn had given him to be able to identify his target, he hadn’t stopped to really _see_ the prince. _Exhale._ He’d never realized how beautiful, how breathtaking Noctis was. _Inhale._ He should have said something last night, before they parted ways. Now he’d likely never see the prince again. A long, slow exhale, as he watched the smoke curl into the air. Ephemeral as the words that had passed between them, as the glances they’d shared.

After several minutes, when his nerves had calmed and his thoughts had stopped chasing each other in circles, he ground out the cigarette and unfolded the paper napkin from last night, the prince’s number scratched out in black pen in the center. Ten meaningless numbers, spread out diagonally on the low-quality paper.

He reached into his jacket pocket to withdraw his lighter and, with a flick of his thumb, he set the napkin ablaze, letting the remaining ashes drift away on the light breeze.

_Seven days,_ Ardyn’s voice said in his head.

“Goodbye, Prince Noctis,” Ignis said aloud.

 

* * *

 

He spent the next three days living the way he did when he was on a long assignment—hiding out on the roofs of buildings or their fire escapes, most nights falling asleep there, slowly using up the single pack of cigarettes he had on him. He ventured out to eat only occasionally. When he did, he could feel the stares directed at him, the suspicious eyes regarding the wraith walking their streets. Ignis caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror once and saw a ghost staring back at him. A wire-thin figure, with a pallid complexion and empty eyes. Nauseous, he turned away quickly, vanishing once again into the shadows.

He got near the Citadel on the evening of the fourth day, as his sense of self-preservation gradually left him. Not wanting to take the same route twice, he found his way up one of the buildings on the opposite side, a shorter, older one that still had part of a fire escape clinging to its outer wall. At the top of the building, observing the roads that led to the Citadel in the fading daylight, Ignis wondered what he’d expected. To see the prince? Unlikely, when he didn’t know Noctis’s schedule. And he could just forget about speaking to him.

Ignis ran a hand over his face. What he needed right now was a drink. To drown out all the anxieties that had crowded his mind, all the regrets. To drown out Ardyn’s insufferable voice, reminding him that he’d failed. To scatter the images of Noctis that persisted in his head.

And maybe, if he went back to that place where he and Noctis had first talked . . .

But what were the odds of that meeting happening again? What were the chances the prince would be _alone_ _?_ He had been—and probably still was, knowing Ardyn—a target, above all else. Ignis knew he needed to stop clinging and focus on the next three days, but there was something about that conversation he’d had with the prince that he still couldn’t shake.

The way Noctis’s eyes had met his, searched his. The curiosity in his face, the genuine _interest_. The way he’d abandoned all else to continue their conversation. This was something else Ignis would never get from the other assassins, or Ardyn: the feeling of being _wanted_.

He hadn’t realized how strong the need for that feeling had grown over the last ten years.

He’d just decided to vacate his spot on the roof of the building he’d decided to occupy when he heard the low, distant sound of impact from the direction of the Citadel, followed by tremors beneath his feet. Swearing softly, he crept to the edge of the roof and looked out. Smoke drifted from the lower part of the building, close to the road just outside the entrance, and swarms of guards and Kingsglaive soldiers alike had started to converge on the spot. Someone must have set off an explosion.

Ignis sat back on his heels and surveyed the building. Could this be Ardyn’s work? Further punishment for what Ignis had, or rather _hadn’t_ , done? Or a signal that Ardyn knew where he’d go? He was inclined to discount the idea, since Ardyn never acted on his own, but he didn’t doubt that Ardyn would hand off the job to someone else.

He couldn’t go to Noctis, or show any concern for the prince’s well-being. After all, logically, they’d just met and Ignis had no duty to protect the prince. This was no more than bait. Whether his employer knew Ignis would be here or not, the incident would no doubt be all over the news within minutes, and if Ignis had been less careful, had acted without thinking, he might be making his way to the Citadel to scope out the situation.

Realistically, he had only one choice: get out of here.

He rose to his feet again, got a running start, and cleared the space between the two buildings. Then the next, and the next, until he found a building old and concealed enough to use the window ledges to climb down.

He dropped to the ground. Could he risk showing his face in a hotel tonight, just to get off the streets and not have to sleep in the shadow of one of the old buildings? Would they be watching him, cataloging his name and his face?

Opting instead to stay hidden, he followed the darkening streets and slipped into the first bar he could find. He’d blend into the shadows, lie low until he could figure out what this meant. Until he could return to the keep.

Until Ardyn would allow him back.

He took a deep breath and steeled himself to wait things out.

 

* * *

 

By the sixth day—maybe the seventh, he’d started to lose count as he’d lost sleep—Ignis had picked up all the facts that he could on the story regarding the Citadel.

He sat at a table in the back of a café, where a screen in the corner was still headlining information and showing the video coverage they’d gleaned over the past few days. Only a couple of guards had been injured in the explosion. Whoever had set it off must have done so as a diversion, because the real incident had taken place in the chaos.

King Regis had been assassinated.

No one had seen the killer. The Kingsglaive had been sent out to look for evidence and potentially track down the perpetrator, but so far they’d had no luck. They’d asked Prince Noctis for a statement once during a press conference, but he’d refused, and his guards had escorted him out while he hid his face. The sight of that devastation on the prince’s face, the tears glistening in his blue eyes, had made sympathy twist hard and sharp in Ignis’s chest like a blade.

It might have indeed been Ardyn’s work. And he might never know.

But he had done this, too, what felt like hundreds of times. Absconded with the life of someone he had never met. For reasons Ardyn had never given.

He could walk away now. He could turn his back on the keep, on his life as an assassin, and never set foot on Ardyn’s doorstep again.

Yet those words still rang in his head.

_Should you leave, you will speak to no one, and you will dispose of your own life, or let one of your fellow assassins do it for you._

Ignis would turn his back on Ardyn in a heartbeat, but he didn’t desire to turn his back on everything else. He wanted to live in that moment in which Noctis had looked into his eyes. To live _for_ someone like Noctis. To feel like something more than a flawless weapon in someone else’s arsenal.

To feel _needed._

At that moment, someone clapped him on the shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts. “Hey, Specs,” a sharp-edged female voice greeted him. “Surviving?”

Ignis glanced up to find Aranea standing beside his table, her arms crossed over her chest and a slight smirk on her lips. For an embarrassing moment, he couldn’t think of anything to say. For some reason, Ardyn’s instructions were ricocheting around in his mind over and over, blocking out all else: _Should you leave, you will speak to no one._ What slipped out was, “Aranea—what are you doing here?”

She shook her head, letting out a short laugh, and dropped into the seat across from him. “What do you think? Your time’s up. It’s been seven days.” When he didn’t respond, she studied his face. “You okay? You don’t look so hot.” Her voice had gone almost soft. A spike of resentment shot through him.

“I’m _fine,_ ” he snapped. And then, when several heartbeats had passed, he took a breath and asked in a calmer tone, “Was the king’s assassination Ardyn’s work?”

“Ravus’s, actually.” She braced her arms on the table. “But yeah. Ardyn wanted it done, and Ravus was his perfect candidate. He’s still bitter about what happened with his sister. He didn’t hesitate.”

_Like either of us would have._ She didn’t speak the words, but Ignis heard them anyway.

“Is it . . .” Ignis hesitated, unsure how to phrase the question he wanted to ask next. “Does it have anything to do with my assignment? Did he mean it as a reminder?”

“Don’t know,” Aranea said. “But I don’t think so. Seems like he’s got his own agenda.”

“I see.”

Aranea reached across the table and snagged the coffee cup that still sat just to Ignis’s right. She tipped it back and drained the rest of the contents as he watched, expressionless. When she finally set the cup down again, the smirk had returned to her face.

“Aranea—”

She patted his clasped hands. “You need sleep, not caffeine, Specs.” Rising to her feet, she vacated the seat she’d stolen and began to walk away. “You coming?”

“I . . .” he began, staring at his hands. “I don’t wish to return.”

Aranea froze, and Ignis could’ve sworn he saw surprise and fear flash like twin blades in her eyes. “Are you saying . . . you want me to . . . ?”

_To kill you._ As Ardyn had trained them. _You will let one of your fellow assassins . . ._ Ignis shook his head.

“I don’t want to . . . to _die._ ” He took a deep breath. “I just can’t bring myself to return to him. After all this.”

A moment passed in silence, and then Aranea lowered herself into the chair across from him again, her movements careful, soundless. “Ignis,” she said, low and serious. “What happened on that assignment?”

In an equally soft voice and without looking up from the table, Ignis recounted the job, from the moment he’d set foot in Noctis’s apartment to the first breath he’d taken when he’d come to. The realization that he’d failed.

Aranea remained silent for a while when he’d finished. When he finally glanced up again, he found her studying him.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Aranea replied. “Was it some sort of psychosomatic reaction—like you got so nervous about killing him that you sent yourself into an attack? Or did someone actually interfere?”

“I don’t know.” Ignis rubbed his temples. “I have heard rumors that the Lucian royal family possess some sort of power. Perhaps I was too weak. I should have been more cautious.”

“Look,” Aranea said. “You did what you could. Something happened that you couldn’t control, and even though it sucked, you survived. Ardyn will probably back off on whatever job he gives you next—he won’t want to go after anyone with royal blood again anytime soon, after what he just sent Ravus to do. You should just come back.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “Of course. You’re right. But I . . .”

“What?” She tipped her head to the side.

The prince’s face flashed in his mind’s eye again. “Nothing.” He stood up sharply, and surprise flickered across Aranea’s face as she followed suit. “Let’s go.”

He strode toward the front door, pushing the few memories he had of the Crown Prince of Lucis from his mind. No matter what he thought, the game had always been and would always be about survival.

And he still didn’t intend to lose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! And thanks to everyone for the support on the last chapter! :D
> 
> Last week was a struggle for me in terms of finding the inspiration and time to write, but I'm pushing through. (Although . . . the opening scene of this chapter was one of my favorites to work on so far, lol.)
> 
> As usual, feel free to come bug me on [tumblr](https://iridiumring92.tumblr.com/), or comment to let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

His next assignment came days later, when he was summoned back into Ardyn’s office for a briefing. Normally the time without work would have been a welcome reprieve, a recovery from what he’d just been through, but in the days that passed he found himself wishing he had something to occupy him. Some word from Ardyn. Some sign that he wasn't about to be ambushed and brutalized within an inch of his life. But there was only silence.

He steeled himself as he stood in front of the door. All too clearly he could remember the feeling of marble floor like ice against his face, could feel the phantom shocks of the blows to his ribs. The last he’d looked in the mirror, those bruises and lacerations been nearly healed. He couldn’t discount the possibility that Ardyn had called him here only to open those wounds again.

Ignis counted to ten, took a breath, and opened the door.

Ardyn stood behind the desk on the opposite side of the room, one hand brushing a stack of documents in the corner. He looked up when his subordinate assassin entered, his mouth curving into that usual knowing smirk.

“Scientia,” he said too quietly, too calmly, “you deigned to show up. I must say, I’m quite impressed.”

Ignis’s blood went cold. Ardyn’s tone of voice, his unearthly stillness, were setting off warning signals in his head. Instinctively, he tensed, wanting to take a step back, but he stopped himself.

_Weak. I cannot allow this._

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to show no reaction, to stand his ground as Ardyn moved away from the desk and closer to the center of the room where Ignis stood.

“I have another assignment for you,” Ardyn said. “If, that is, you decide to follow through with it.” He strode forward to hover just at Ignis’s left shoulder, and Ignis had to concentrate to keep himself from closing his eyes or clenching his hands into fists. Ardyn’s closeness brought his subconscious back, again and again, to the last time he’d stood in this office. The memory was so vivid he could still taste the blood in his mouth.

“You remember our bargain, don’t you?” Ardyn asked, his hand ghosting across Ignis’s shoulder. Only years of training kept Ignis from flinching. “The steel is your guide, yet you will bow to no one but me.”

As he continued, Ignis repeated the words with him, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

“I will carry out your orders unconditionally. Should I fail, I will accept the punishment.”

Before he could continue, Ardyn stepped directly in front of him, pressing a finger to his lips. “Listen to me very carefully, Scientia. Your next target is a member of the Crownsguard.” He reached out to slip a piece of paper into Ignis’s hand. “Not so important as the Crown Prince, but a pathway to him. It should make things easier for you when you return to the job again in the future. Yes?”

Ignis didn’t break eye contact, didn’t say a word. _King Regis has just been assassinated,_ he wanted to reply. _Security at the Citadel will be much tighter than normal. And if I take the life of one of the members of the Crownsguard, things will only get worse._ Yet he could voice none of this to Ardyn, and as soon as the last thought crossed his mind, he came to that now-familiar realization.

Part of the punishment. He hadn’t yet made up for his earlier failure.

A hand collided with his face, the impact practically rattling his teeth and so sudden, so unexpected that this time, Ignis did take a step back. He’d looked away. He’d let his eyes leave his employer’s for just that half-second.

The feigned amusement had left Ardyn’s expression, giving way to undisguised hostility. “Do not fail me again, Scientia. This is your last warning.”

He turned and walked to his desk, then to the window, his back to Ignis. After a moment, he waved a hand over his shoulder. “You’re dismissed.”

Ignis dipped his head even though he doubted Ardyn could see him and turned to leave, the small folded square of paper—no doubt containing information about his target—still clenched in his fist. He tried to convince himself that he would make it through the assignment as he opened the door and exited the office. With each step that he took down the hallway, toward the stairwell and his quarters, he felt like he was going numb from the outside in.

Once he had not thought twice about his targets. Once, he had accepted each job with grim determination, had shut out everything else and done Ardyn’s bidding like a machine. But back then it had been about survival. If he disobeyed, he would lose his life, and his life was all he had.

But now he wasn’t sure survival was everything anymore. He had sat across from the Crown Prince of Lucis, a target, and looked into his eyes. Had heard his own name spoken from that admittedly alluring mouth. And it was as if he had realized simultaneously the damage he’d done and that he wanted more than this. He wanted to subsist on something other than desperation, to learn how to feel, to _feel something._ His encounter with the prince had opened up a yawning black hole in his chest.

And again, he found himself wondering if he could do it—leave Ardyn and his life as an assassin behind, even if it meant the end of his life altogether.

He continued down the hallway, unable to shake the feeling that he didn’t know where he was going and that soon, he would hit a dead end.

 

* * *

 

Ignis went out into the Crown City in search of his target early the next morning. He’d lain awake for hours the night before, thinking of what Ardyn had said to him, unable to lose the echoes of the contact between them. He could still feel that subtle touch at his shoulder—the sensation made his skin crawl. And his cheek and jaw throbbed from the blow to his face, a nagging pain that he just couldn’t seem to shut out, despite having sustained much worse wounds before.

After several hours, he’d finally slept, but that sleep had been fitful and unsatisfying, and before the sun had even risen over Insomnia he’d slipped out of the keep to locate the target Ardyn had assigned him. Though shadows still dominated the streets, the sky glowed with the promise of sunrise, a respite for his exhausted eyes. He’d cataloged the little information he had on his target and laid out a path to the address Ardyn had specified—not the Citadel, after all—intending to monitor the place throughout the day and strike when the sun disappeared later.

But as Ignis turned another corner, keeping close to the outer wall of the building closest to him, he realized that his subconscious had taken him on a completely different route. Looking up, he beheld the high-rise apartment building on the street where he’d parked the night he’d intended to assassinate the Crown Prince. Noctis’s apartment building.

That same black vehicle idled in front of the doors. Which meant he was here. Somewhere.

He picked up the pace, shoving his hands into his pockets and keeping his eyes forward, determined not to watch the entrance to the apartment building. If he wasn’t careful, he risked running into Prince Noctis himself, and if he indulged himself, he knew, he’d stand in the shadows and wait until the prince stepped outside. He couldn’t _let_ himself—

Ignis risked a glance over his shoulder once he’d put the building behind him.

 _There._ Standing in front of the car’s passenger door—that was _him_ , in dark, casual clothes, his unkempt hair nearly masking his eyes. The same as Ignis had seen him on those two nights.

He looked up, his eyes skating sideways in Ignis’s direction.

Ignis’s breath caught, his mind screamed _No,_ willing the prince to look away, pleading to the Six to turn his gaze in another direction even as another part of him ached for that sliver of attention, and their eyes met.

Ignis turned away, his heart hammering out a furious rhythm in his chest, and forced his gaze down to the sidewalk. His mind screamed a chorus of _Don’t look at me, don’t recognize me, don’t call out to me,_ as he continued down the street.

Not now. Not when he was on an assignment. He hadn’t meant to come here anyway.

But the prince made no move to get Ignis’s attention, or to let him know he’d seen him. Regardless, Ignis’s heart rate didn’t return to normal for the next several blocks.

He took the fire escape up to one of his usual haunts a few streets later, nowhere near the keep or the Citadel or the apartment building where he’d just seen Noctis, and he sat with his knees pulled up against his chest to watch the sun rise. Once the light had begun to break over the horizon, he lit a cigarette, tipped his head back, and closed his eyes.

 _Inhale._ Just minutes ago, he’d gone off course and allowed himself to drift back to Noctis, drawn by that invisible tether he couldn’t seem to cut. _Exhale._ Days before, he had said his goodbyes, reminding himself that he was nothing to the prince, that Noctis was mistaken about him. _Inhale._ Noctis had made him feel something. That he couldn’t deny. _Exhale—_

He collapsed into a coughing fit. His own lungs felt like they were betraying him, seizing up and forcing out the smoke, and drawing up memories of the night he’d spent on the floor of Ardyn’s office, his body crying out in pain and his mouth coated with the residual taste of blood. He stood up, stamped out the cigarette, and walked to the edge of the roof.

Below him, the streets of the Crown City buzzed with activity, while he stood hundreds of feet above it all, detached, alone. He found himself examining the drop below, wondering how far away it might take him.

Ten years of playing this game, and he was exhausted.

He wondered if it would be easier to forfeit.

Ignis heard footsteps behind him, and when he turned around, he saw Aranea striding toward him, a harrowing figure in her black armor with several knife sheaths on her thighs and her hair unbound for once. The sight of her and the murderous look on her face had Ignis taking a step back.

“I don’t fucking think so,” she said.

Before Ignis could even form a sentence, she’d stepped around him and shoved him toward the middle of the roof, away from the edge. He didn’t bother trying to push back. Instead he faced her and waited for that icy rage to hit its mark.

“What the hell was that?” Aranea snapped.

He opened his mouth to explain, but instead he said, “You followed me?”

“Yeah, I followed you. You’re an assassin. How the hell didn’t you catch on?” She stuck a hand on her hip and glared at him, but when she read the look on his face deeper, her eyes softened a little. “You really want out that much?”

“I . . .” He shook his head, at a loss for words. What could he say that wouldn’t condemn him as either a traitor or a bad liar? “Aranea, whatever you saw . . . that wasn’t my intention. I would never have—”

“How should I know? You haven’t been the same for months, Ignis. Besides, you just failed your first assignment, and paid for it with your own skin. I know how that downward spiral feels.” Aranea ran a hand through her hair, as if noticing for the first time that she hadn’t pinned it back. “I’ve just come to terms with the fact that if I want to keep breathing, this is what I have to do.”

“Indeed,” Ignis murmured, “but this isn’t all there is. And I may not have known that years ago, but I can feel it now. This is not our purpose. Yet Ardyn . . . won’t allow us to escape.”

“That’s why I’m resisting any way I can,” Aranea said. “Let him try to do something about it. I refuse to be his puppet.” She snorted. “Like Ravus is.”

Ignis fell silent. _But what do you do,_ he wanted to ask, _when your life is no longer your own, and the only way to reclaim it will result in your death? Do you accept that consequence?_

Instead he asked the other, less fatalistic question that had been on his mind since she’d appeared. “For how long were you tailing me?”

“Since you left the keep.” She spoke as if the answer were obvious. “I’d just gotten back from doing some recon for my assignment, and there you were. Leaving. Something didn’t seem right, so I followed you.” She shrugged.

 _And did you see him?_ Ignis almost asked. _The Crown Prince of Lucis? Did you see me pass by his apartment building like some sort of depraved shadow?_

But before the words left his mouth, he realized how that must have looked to her. Either she’d thought it was part of his assignment, or she hadn’t realized the full context of the scene. Hadn’t realized the Crown Prince stood on the other side of the street. Or that Ignis had made eye contact with him.

And if she’d followed him, and Noctis had seen . . . That must have been why he hadn’t called out. That or he hadn’t wanted to draw his driver’s attention.

Regret twisted his insides into knots. He wished he could have called the number Noctis had given him, apologized, explained himself, said goodbye in person. Instead he’d vanished, leaving nothing but radio silence in his wake—only to appear like a specter before the prince’s apartment building. He’d fucked up. He should have turned around and walked the other way as soon as he realized he’d made a wrong turn.

Ignis dragged a hand through his hair, staring out at Insomnia’s skyline. “I have an assignment,” he said. “I shouldn’t be here.”

Aranea looked as if she wanted to reply, to tell Ignis she wasn’t letting him out of her sight until he could promise he wouldn’t try to off himself, but instead she just sighed. After a moment of silence, she said, “I’m going back. I need a couple hours of sleep before I get back to work.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Of course.”

He kept his eyes fixed on his shoes as he listened to her footsteps fading and then disappearing completely.

In the end, he decided to find somewhere else to calm down while he reassessed the situation. He could only postpone the job for so long. He headed for the building’s fire escape, still trembling slightly from his encounter with Aranea. His legs felt unsteady even as he set foot on the concrete again.

He slipped through various back streets, staying in the shadows whenever he sensed a set of eyes on him, stopping only when he reached a low-traffic bridge that arched over one of the wider roads. From here, he registered dimly, he could see the Citadel. He leaned against the railing, dragged his hands through his hair, and tried to steady his breathing. _Inhale. Exhale._

When his nerves subsided, he sank into a low so deep he thought his chest would crack, his heart would shatter. He didn’t know what to do. Maybe he should turn his back on his work no matter the consequences, if only for the sake of the beautiful Crown Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum. Or maybe Aranea was right and all of this was sentimental nonsense.

He didn’t know how long he stood there at the edge of the bridge, his head in his hands, begging the Six for guidance and forgiveness for the things he’d done. Minutes? Hours? He lost track.

A calm, familiar voice said, “Hey,” startling him out of his darkness. Someone else’s shoulder nudged his.

Ignis opened his eyes.

 _No._ He must have fainted, or started to hallucinate, or the Six were playing cruel tricks on him. He couldn’t trust what he was seeing.

Because the Crown Prince of Lucis stood beside him, cheeks flushed, smiling an embarrassed sort of smile with just one side of his mouth.

“We never talked,” Noctis said. “You didn’t call. What happened?”

For a moment, Ignis forgot how to speak. He lost himself looking into Noctis’s blue eyes, letting his gaze flit to the shadow of his mouth. And when he recovered, he forgot to ask how Noctis had found him. “I . . . lost your number,” he lied. “I’m so sorry. I meant to call. Things just . . . happened.” He could feel his own voice shaking. He pressed his lips together and saw Noctis’s eyes follow the movement, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Oh. That’s okay.” That half-smile tugged at the prince’s mouth again. “Should’ve given you some other way to contact me, I guess.”

Ignis remembered, suddenly, the news he had heard while he’d been forbidden from the keep. The news that Aranea had confirmed about King Regis. “Your Highness, forgive me. I’d almost forgotten. About your father—my condolences.”

“Oh,” Noctis said again, his face falling slightly. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“This morning,” Ignis said, thinking of their almost-meeting earlier outside Noctis’s apartment building. He’d wanted to change the subject but regretted the words as soon as he’d spoken them. Noctis just waited for him to continue, and after a moment, he went on. “My apologies. For walking away like that. I didn’t realize you’d be there and I . . . I didn’t know whether to call out.”

“It’s not your fault,” Noctis said. “My driver was getting on my case anyway.” He hesitated. “Are you around there a lot? I could meet you sometime.”

“Not often. My schedule is a bit . . .” Ignis hesitated. “Unpredictable.”

Noctis nodded slightly. “Well, if you change your mind, I’m there nights, usually. I don’t stay in the Citadel anymore. Not like when we were younger.” A look of pure confusion must have crossed Ignis’s face, because he said, “You do remember the Citadel, don’t you?”

“I can’t say I do.” Nothing beyond the bits and pieces of mental maps he’d arranged of a few of the lower-level floors when he’d been there on assignments in the past. He didn’t remember ever _staying_ there. That was far above his rank. “Are you entirely sure you haven’t gotten me mixed up with someone else?”

“I don’t know, but . . .” Noctis shook his head. “You look the same. And your voice is . . .” He trailed off, another blush racing across his cheeks. “Familiar.”

Ignis couldn’t help but wonder what he’d planned to say.

“So if you don’t remember the Citadel,” Noctis finally continued, “where have you been? What have you been doing all this time?”

This was it—the question he’d dreaded having to answer. If he told Noctis what had really happened to him, that he’d found refuge living with several other assassins and their master and that he’d spend the past ten years of his life killing, he had no doubt that the prince would turn his back. And if he told Noctis he’d been assigned to kill him . . . then perhaps he’d have the Kingsglaive after him, too. His throat felt tight as he debated how to respond.

“Focusing on my studies,” he said. _Training._ “Working, as well.” _Killing._

Noctis responded with a noise of agreement. “Me too. I’m surprised our paths haven’t crossed until now.”

Ignis swallowed. “Look,” he began. “Your Highness. I don’t—”

“It’s Noctis,” the prince interrupted. “You don’t have to bother with the formalities. I don’t really like them anyway.”

Noctis. _Noctis._ He wanted so much to call the prince by his name, but he couldn’t allow himself to start building bridges. Better to stay at arm’s length. The prince deserved better, after all. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to continue meeting like this.”

The light went out of Noctis’s eyes. The sight hit Ignis like a punch in the chest, and he wished he’d just turned away without saying anything at all. “What do you mean? Why?”

“Someone like you shouldn’t . . . be seen with someone like me.” The Crown Prince and an assassin didn’t belong together in any sort of situation, no matter what Ignis wanted. And if Ardyn found out, he might have _both_ of them killed. Ignis should be out on reconnaissance right now, working on his next assignment.

“That’s not true,” Noctis said, concern creasing his brow. “I don’t mind. It’s not like anyone recognizes me out here.” He locked eyes with Ignis, desperation making itself clear in his eyes, the slight downward curve of his mouth. “Stay.”

He’d just lost his father. They both needed someone else to talk to. He couldn’t deny Noctis this any more than he could deny himself.

“All right,” he said quietly, finally.

Undisguised relief flooded Noctis’s face, and he averted his eyes. Ignis fought back the urge to reach out to him, to hold him close. Instead, he leaned against the railing and looked down at the street.

“You know,” Noctis said after a silence, “people know my name, and they know what I look like from those press conferences, but sometimes when I’m out I just disappear.” He drew in a slow breath. “And when I’m at home, in the Citadel . . . I disappear there too.”

Ignis looked over at him. His eyes were downcast, his face shadowed in the aftermath of loss.

“But when we talked that first night,” Noctis said, “I felt—whole. Like you could actually _see_ me. Not like . . .” He trailed off with a sigh. “I’m . . . sorry. If this seems like too much.”

“No, I understand.”

 _And you don’t even know how much,_ Ignis thought. He’d wanted the same thing for years, and he’d just kept pushing that desire back down, pretending it wasn’t there. For Noctis to voice that same desire—it could be his undoing.

“Oh. Good.” Noctis sounded surprised. “Thank you.”

The two of them stood side by side in a comfortable silence for a while. Ignis couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so at ease with, or so drawn to, someone he’d just met. Maybe Noctis was right, and they had indeed met years and years ago. Maybe his memories of the things he’d done as an assassin, the things that kept him awake at night, had pushed out the memories he’d had of earlier and less traumatic events. He might never truly know.

Unless—

“Tell me about what it was like,” he said to Noctis, turning slightly to face him. “When we were younger.”

“I remember one time,” Noctis began again after a moment, his voice soft, “we were waiting for my dad to come back from a meeting, and the sky started getting darker. The stars started appearing one by one. My dad still hadn’t come back, and when you saw that I was getting anxious . . . you started to point out the constellations. One by one. I couldn’t believe how many there were. I completely forgot about waiting.”

Ignis raised his eyebrows. He didn’t remember this incident in the least, though . . . his memory of the constellations had remained intact over the years. He’d spent many a night looking out at the stars, or reciting the names of the constellations silently as he waited to complete an assignment. But he didn’t remember sharing that information with Noctis. Ignis could think of nothing to say.

He looked away. He couldn’t bring himself to believe he’d had this whole other life before becoming an assassin, and yet the things that Noctis told him occasionally rang true. How could Noctis know those things about him, if they hadn’t already spent time together previously?

“Here—Ignis. I have something for you.” Noctis reached into his pocket and produced a folded piece of paper, which he pressed into Ignis’s hand.

“What is this?”

“The address for my apartment,” Noctis explained, color creeping back into his cheeks. Ignis couldn’t help but find the prince’s embarrassment endearing. “Just don’t come over in the afternoon. Usually I’ve got stuff to do at the Citadel.”

“Of course,” Ignis said, pocketing the slip of paper. “Thank you, Noctis.”

“No problem.”

Six knew he needed a safe haven. The keep was never safe, not with the other assassins just around the corner and Ardyn likely watching his every move. And when he was out on the streets without an assignment, he felt lost, like his sense of direction had left him.

But he couldn’t think about this now—not when Ardyn would be counting down the hours until Ignis would need to return, when they were losing daylight with every minute that passed.

He pushed back his sleeve to check his watch. “I have somewhere to be,” he said. “A meeting, if you will. My apologies.” Not quite the truth, not quite a lie.

“But we’ll be in touch, right?” Noctis asked, looking up at him. When Ignis nodded, the relief returned to his face. “Okay. See you around.”

Ignis turned and left the prince standing at the edge of the street. He tried not to look back, reminded himself over and over not to look back, but when he reached the end of the street he couldn’t stop himself from casting a glance over his shoulder.

Noctis was looking right back at him. Ignis felt the exact moment their eyes met, even from that distance, and he swallowed against the ache in his throat before forcing himself to turn away again.

To keep his life, he had to do what Ardyn asked. He had to return to playing the game.

It was time to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and apologies for the long hiatus!
> 
> As always, lots and lots of thank yous to everyone for the kudos, comments, and tumblr notes :)
> 
> If you have any thoughts or questions about the chapter, or you just wanna talk, I'll be around here and on tumblr.


	4. Chapter 4

The news stations broadcast the story in a hundred different forms the next morning. Ignis, haunting one of his usual coffee shops, watched the headlines go by on the screens and in the newspapers. He kept his head bowed and spoke to no one.

“A member of the Crownsguard was found murdered in his own quarters early this morning,” a reporter announced again. As if anyone could have possibly missed the news. “Just days after the assassination of His Majesty Regis Lucis Caelum, this news comes as a shock to all of us. . . .”

The reporter’s picture disappeared, giving way to photos of the apartment where the soldier had met his end. They’d moved his body, but the splashes of blood, the marks left by the blade, remained visible. Ignis closed his eyes, but the gory black-and-white images brought him back to the night before.

From the time he’d set out to complete the assignment, he’d been unable to shake Ardyn’s voice, endlessly repeating the code that had bound him these ten long years. _The steel is your guide._ Drifting down the streets of Insomnia, he had recalled his first kills—jobs on which he had hesitated, spent too much time hiding in the shadows, and wept over the blood on his hands afterward. _You will bow to no one but me._ With every step, he had slipped deeper into that dark space where nothing mattered but his orders. _You will carry out my orders unconditionally._ His thoughts revolved around only the weapons concealed in his jacket, the specified location, and the name of and information about his target. _Should you fail, you will accept the punishment._ He spiraled down, down . . .

And he stood at the door to the apartment, the lockpick at his fingertips. A swift movement of his hand had the door opening, beckoning him into the depths. He swept past the threshold.

Though the entryway was dark, the lights were still on somewhere in the apartment. The soft glow reflected into the adjoined rooms, getting brighter with each doorway that he passed. He heard the telltale sounds of someone walking barefoot in the next room. No—pacing. From one side of the room to the other. Then a voice, responding to someone else. Ignis stilled. Was there someone else in the apartment?

But the answering voice sounded thin, as if from a speaker, and when Ignis heard it, he allowed himself to relax a little. A phone conversation, then. Though he’d have to wait here, until it drew to a close, before he could act. He wanted no record of the incident.

The soldier’s conversation dragged on, becoming indistinct background noise as Ignis closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, no more than a shadow. He let his senses attune to the Crownsguard member’s voice, the resonance of the sound in the apartment, where it echoed and where it stopped, and noted where the furniture likely stood. When the voices gave way to silence, Ignis’s nerves went on full alert.

He was around the corner as soon as the light shut off.

The training kicked in a half second later. A hand over the soldier’s mouth to keep him quiet, a knife at his throat. But he met resistance as his target attempted to throw him off, and he had to pull out another knife for a glancing blow, as a distraction. The next several moments went by in a blur. He dropped the second knife, to give his target the illusion that he’d succeeded in disarming him, and then he felt his empty hand find purchase at his target’s shoulder as the blade of the first knife went through the skin and arteries and muscle of his throat, resulting in the sudden, warm rush of blood from the wound. It soaked the sleeve of his jacket, and as his target’s body went limp, Ignis swore.

Then he was standing over his target in the shadows of the room, with blood spattered over his hands and his face, coating his jacket and the two knives he’d drawn. In the darkness he could see it spreading slowly across the floor from the Crownsguard soldier’s body like another shadow. He retrieved the second knife from where it had fallen to the floor and attempted to wipe both of them clean on the fabric of his pants. Sliding them both back into the sheaths concealed by his jacket, he slipped from the room.

Ignis opened his eyes and found himself back in the coffee shop, trying not to look at the screens that had chronicled and speculated about the Crownsguard member’s death. They had moved on to asking whether his death and that of King Regis were connected, and to reiterating that the soldiers of the Kingsglaive had been instructed to hunt down the killers.

_You won’t find us,_ Ignis wanted to tell them. _Not while Ardyn still breathes._

He took a deep breath and rose from the table, keeping his expression and the movements of his body neutral as he walked out. The time had come for him to return to the keep, lest Ardyn grow tired of waiting.

He’d scrubbed the bloodstains from his hands and face hours ago, and he’d done his best to clean out the blood that had crusted in the sleeve of his jacket. To everyone else on the street, he knew, he must look like a traveler exhausted from work.

Sometimes he felt that he was two different people. The assassin who walked the streets with bloodstained knives sheathed in his jacket, and the man who’d sat on the other side of a table at a bar with the Crown Prince of Lucis. He didn’t know which of those was really _him._ Or maybe neither of them was.

The entrance to the building stood before him, and he pushed past it, refusing to hesitate despite the way his nerves buzzed. He kept moving until he reached Ardyn’s office. And then he stopped.

The hallway was silent but for the sound of his own breathing, harsh against the still air. He had nothing to fear this time, he reminded himself. He had done what was asked of him. But that didn’t stop his heart from racing and his fingers from feeling utterly numb as he reached for the door handle.

A step, and he was in the doorway. Another step, and he was across the threshold. He forced himself to straighten his shoulders, to raise his chin and look straight ahead. The door clicked shut behind him.

Ardyn stood at the window, his back to Ignis. He turned only at the sound of the door closing.

“So, you’ve returned.”

The sound of Ardyn’s voice had every muscle in his body tensing, yet Ignis knew that the moment he showed any sort of reaction, he was lost. He didn’t move except to track his employer’s motions with his eyes.

“And _what_ have I done to deserve such looks from you, Scientia?” Ardyn asked. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ve heard what you’ve done. And how cruel. Taking an innocent man’s life? For shame.” He shook his head. And though Ignis tried to keep his face a mask of disinterest, he must have reacted somehow, because Ardyn smiled. “Oh, come now, Scientia. I jest.”

Ignis said nothing. He met his employer’s eyes, all the while concentrating on the placement of the blades in his jacket. For a moment, he let himself imagine drawing those blades, still caked with the remnants of his target’s blood, on Ardyn. Maybe if he did, he could finally escape the prison Ardyn had slowly built around him for the last ten years.

“Don’t try me, Scientia.” Ardyn’s voice cut through his thoughts. “What, you think I can’t see it in your eyes?” He took a few steps closer, so that Ignis had to fight the urge to back away. “Your friend Aranea directs that look at me all the time, and she’s been trying to rebel against me for years.” He paused, letting those words sink in. “I would hate to see your potential go to waste in a fight as futile as that.”

“I’ve done what you asked,” Ignis said, finally letting his voice escape through gritted teeth. “What more do you want?”

Ardyn returned his glare with a smile and faced his palms to the ceiling. “Nothing,” he said lightly. “I’ll call on you when I have your next assignment. You’re dismissed.”

For a stunned moment, Ignis didn’t move. He’d half expected further instructions, half expected to be beaten into submission for his insolence, but no part of him foresaw _dismissal._ Still, he spun on his heel and fled the room before Ardyn could change his mind.

Once he’d returned to the hallway, he stopped to lean against the wall and catch his breath. He was safe—at least until his next assignment.

But the thought of returning to his quarters at the keep didn’t appeal to him at all. He’d spent far too many long, sleepless nights there staring at the ceiling, and all he wanted was to get out.

He turned to escape the hallway—and the keep altogether—only to bump shoulders with one of the other assassins walking in the opposite direction. Ignis caught a flash of white hair as he turned to recover from his loss of balance.

“Watch where you’re going,” Ravus snapped. And before Ignis could reply, he vanished into Ardyn’s office, slamming the door behind him.

Ignis shook his head. Drawing his jacket closer around him, he made his way to the building’s front door and started to shake off the chains that his employer and the keep never failed to place on him.

He wandered the streets of Insomnia for a while, losing himself in crowds and in his thoughts. Last night felt so far away, and yet he couldn’t seem to shed the memory of it the way he could his bloodstained jacket. He could still feel the blood on his hands, the knives balanced in them, their smooth, certain arcs through flesh that had ended the Crownsguard soldier’s life. He looked down at his hands once or twice, wondered whether his hands were really the hands that had performed that deed. Every time, he forced himself to keep going, kept his head down and moved through the crowds of people on Insomnia’s streets, told himself he was one of them. None of it helped.

He wanted to see the prince, but he doubted he was in any shape to do so. He couldn’t look anywhere without seeing his target’s face, couldn’t move without feeling the weight of the knives in his jacket. Besides, Noctis had said not to show up in the afternoon, and . . . oh, Six, what time was it, anyway?

He turned onto a side street, hoping to regain his bearings. But as he stepped into the shadows, someone else’s shoulder bumped his, and a slender hand wrapped around his arm. Shortly thereafter he thought he felt a sensation like a cold wind at his back and heard the echo of an unearthly voice. His instincts told him _Ardyn_ , but when he turned, he beheld a pale woman with long dark hair. Grace personified, and yet with an eerie, supernatural air about her. Ignis was certain that she hadn’t been there a moment ago—unless, like him and the others who worked under Ardyn, she had an aptitude for concealing herself in the shadows.

“I know what it is you’ve done,” she said in a soft voice, the words arched by an accent that was different than his. “Of the task that has been set to you, I am aware. Do not worry,” she added at his expression. “You wish to see him, do you not?”

Ignis took an involuntary step back, one hand reaching for the knife hidden in his jacket. “Who are you?”

She shook her head, as if to signal to him that it didn’t matter. “A messenger,” she said simply. “Go to him. You were bound to meet. Your fates are intertwined.”

“Who is he?” Ignis asked, but by then he knew the answer. She closed her eyes and smiled serenely, as if to confirm that he could indeed answer this question himself. Ignis demanded, “Why do you know about him?”

She shook her head, the smile never leaving her lips, before turning around and walking away. Ignis watched her until she disappeared around the corner. The unnatural cold that had crept over his shoulders vanished.

When he looked to the path ahead of him again, he felt dizzy and disoriented, unsure where exactly he was and when. And the woman who’d spoken—whoever she was—must have meant Noctis, but he couldn’t understand how she knew or what she’d meant by _Your fates are intertwined._ Maybe he’d imagined her. Ignis closed his eyes. He probably just needed sleep.

Regardless of how Noctis was going to see him, he needed to find another place to go.

He reached into his pocket and found the folded-up piece of paper on which Noctis had written his address. His hands shook, but he recited the address once more to himself and, shielding his eyes, sought out the name of the street he stood on. A minute later he shoved the piece of paper back into his pocket and set out.

With every step he took that brought him closer to the address Noctis had given him, Ignis braced himself for disappointment, for rejection. He’d said he wouldn’t be there during the afternoons, yet the sun had already ascended well into the sky and Ignis had for some reason decided it would be a good idea to try and see him. Still, now that he’d set himself on this path, Ignis couldn’t bear to turn back.

He strode through the doors to the apartment building, making his way through the lobby, hoping no one would glance at his empty expression and realize he didn’t belong there, or notice the errant bloodstains he’d failed to scrub out of the creases in his palms, the folds of his jacket. Hell, he hoped Noctis wouldn’t notice those things. Because if he did . . . Sighing, he shook he idea from his mind.

The door to Noctis’s apartment stood in front of him, the number beside the door staring him in the face. Once Ardyn had given him directions to this place. Once, he’d set foot inside in the near-impenetrable darkness, one of his knives in his hand, poised to kill.

No—he couldn’t be here, couldn’t be here, _couldn’t be here—_

A click, and the door swung back. None other than the Crown Prince of Lucis stood behind it, his lips slightly parted, eyes asking all sorts of questions. But all he said was, “Ignis.”

“Your Highness, you have my apologies,” Ignis breathed, bowing his head, bracing an unsteady hand against the door frame. “I know I shouldn’t be here, and I’m sorry. I only wanted—”

“Ignis, what are you talking about?” Noctis asked. He shook his head and waved a hand over his shoulder. “Come in. Then you can tell me what happened.”

_How do you know something happened?_ Ignis almost challenged. But he knew the answer to that question. He’d seen the shadows beneath his own eyes, the traces of blood on his hands, the still-healing bruises. The problem was figuring out what to tell Noctis.

“I . . . haven’t slept,” Ignis confessed once they stood in the entryway with the door securely shut behind them. “So I apologize for . . . dropping in. Looking like this.”

“It’s fine.” Noctis moved toward the living room, an invitation for Ignis to follow. “If you need a break, you can sleep. I have a spare room anyway.”

“No, I’m all right. I just—”

“You look exhausted,” Noctis said, his voice softening, and his fingers twined around Ignis’s wrist, his grip warm and gentle and unlike anything Ignis had ever felt. “Come here.”

He couldn’t bring himself to protest. He’d known that Noctis cared about him, but he hadn’t suspected, hadn’t thought that it might be like this. The Noctis he had encountered that first night, on the assignment from Ardyn—the one in the pictures and press conferences, the one who had somehow managed to cause him such physical pain without hardly moving a muscle—was someone he couldn’t seem to reconcile with _this_ Noctis, the one who smiled at him and offered him the spare bedroom and tried to hold his hand. The Noctis he had at his side now aroused so much _want_ in him it was unhealthy. He couldn’t afford it.

“Highness, I can’t take your bed,” he said uselessly as the prince pulled him across the apartment. He noted that it was indeed a different bedroom than the one he’d entered that first night.

“It’s not my bed.” Noctis paused to open the door, and for a moment he was so close he had to tip his head back a little to meet Ignis’s eyes, so close Ignis could feel the heat of his body. Warmth rushed to Ignis’s face, but Noctis had already turned back to the spare bedroom and didn’t notice. “All yours. We can talk after you get some rest.”

“I don’t need . . .” Ignis murmured, but Noctis guided him forward, a hand grazing the small of his back, and he allowed himself to collapse onto the mattress. Exhaustion finally won out, carrying him straight into sleep.

 

* * *

 

When he came to, the afternoon had faded into evening, and the room was dim, edging on dark. He felt warmth at his side and as he made his slow return to consciousness, he realized Noctis was curled up next to him, his face and frame both relaxed in sleep. Ignis hesitated a moment, studying the prince’s tranquil expression. He saw the same dark bangs falling over his forehead, the same soft mouth, but still he felt no shred of recognition. He pressed his lips together in frustration.

And yet, the way Noctis had folded himself into the space beside Ignis felt so damn _familiar_ , like a sort of muscle memory he hadn’t had reason to use in the last several years. His warmth held the phantom trace of something long lost and suddenly found.

He must have moved, because Noctis stirred as well, his eyes fluttering open. He woke with a couple of deep breaths and several small incoherent sounds, and then he sat up. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

“You were out like a light,” Noctis said, a little smirk forming on his lips. “How much sleep did you lose, anyway?”

“A night’s worth.”

“How?” After a second, he amended, “Um—if you don’t mind me asking.”

Ignis pushed himself into a sitting position, careful to pull back just enough so that he and Noctis were no longer touching. His body mourned the loss of the contact, but at least he wasn’t distracted anymore. He took a breath, letting it out slowly. “Actually, I . . . got into a bit of a disagreement with someone. A fight.”

The truth and a lie at once. He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but Noctis seemed to take his evident discomfort as reluctance to approach the topic rather than untruthfulness.

“Oh,” he said. “Well, that would explain the bruises.”

Ignis remembered the ghost of himself he’d seen in the mirror days ago, the bruised face and the dark scab across his cheek, soon to be a new scar. His face felt hot. Of course he couldn’t have expected Noctis to just ignore those wounds.

Noctis stretched out a hand, his thumb brushing Ignis’s cheek where Ardyn had hit him days before. Ignis jolted back without thinking.

“Sorry,” Noctis said, softly. He studied Ignis’s face for a moment, his lips parting in concern. “Who did this?”

Ignis swallowed hard, one hand tracing slow circles in the sheets beside him. “I don’t particularly want to talk about it.”

Noctis gave a small nod in response. “That’s—fine. I didn’t mean to . . . Well. You know.” He looked sideways, but Ignis didn’t miss the way his eyes skipped over his hands, his blood-crusted nails. He half wondered what Noctis thought had happened.

“I . . .” Ignis cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to have taken so much of your time. I should go.”

“You don’t have to,” Noctis said, shaking his head. “If you need somewhere to be, Ignis . . . Don’t feel bad about staying here.” He glanced down, and Ignis saw his pale throat bob as he swallowed. “I’m usually alone anyway.”

“Your Highness, I—”

“ _Please,_ ” Noctis interrupted him, the firmness in his voice catching Ignis off guard. “Don’t call me that. It’s Noctis.”

Ignis watched him in a sort of stunned silence. He’d thought, all this time, that the prince—that _Noctis_ —would want to hold him at arm’s length, would want to draw clear boundaries between himself and someone of such considerably lower rank. But every time they’d been together, Noctis had just seemed to want to forget himself.

Still, Ignis couldn’t shake the weighty fact that the first time he remembered meeting Noctis, he’d had a knife in his hand and the prince had been asleep.

He wanted to remember differently.

“All right,” he said. “Noctis.” Speaking the prince’s name felt strangely intimate. His voice felt thick with some emotion he couldn’t understand. “Tell me something else, if you would. About before.”

Just like that, any semblance of pain vanished from Noctis’s face. He relaxed, taking Ignis’s wrist again and lying back on the mattress, pulling Ignis down with him so that they lay shoulder-to-shoulder.

“When I was younger, I couldn’t sleep,” Noctis said finally, his voice near a whisper. “My dad was hardly ever around, so I—sometimes, I came to you. And we would lie like this. Together. Until you convinced me that my nightmares weren’t real, and I could fall asleep. And even though I was supposed to be their perfect heir . . . when I was with you, it didn’t matter.”

_That can’t be,_ Ignis thought. _I didn’t live in the Citadel. I was alone._ The words _I don’t remember you_ crossed his mind, but he couldn’t bring himself to say them.

Had _Ardyn_ altered his memories? The thought had never occurred to him before, but now it sent sharp spikes of panic through him. What if everything he remembered was Ardyn’s strange, warped version of what had really happened? If, instead, everything that Noctis had told him was the truth? He _must_ have known Noctis before Ardyn took him in—but then, perhaps it was simply that the stress he’d experienced thereafter had extinguished his memory of the prince completely.

But how could he forget those blue eyes, that sensual mouth? How could he have allowed himself to let go of these memories—of whispering those constellations to Noctis, of lying beside him on the nights he needed comfort? The thought made Ignis’s throat tighten painfully.

“You were like . . . an anchor,” Noctis said. “When I lost—um, when you left . . . According to my dad, I was inconsolable. I didn’t know what to do without you.” And with that, he turned his head so that his cheek pressed against Ignis’s shoulder. Ignis glanced at him, but he had closed his eyes, as if he might fall asleep again. “But he told me you had other responsibilities, and that I might see you again someday. It still took me years to stop missing you.”

Ignis could feel his pulse in his throat, and he prayed that Noctis wouldn’t be able to sense the tension wrought throughout his body. But if Noctis did, he didn’t show it.

“Something else,” Ignis murmured. “Tell me something else.” As if enough reminders from Noctis might somehow kickstart his memory.

“Okay.” Noctis paused a moment before continuing. Ignis focused on the way Noctis breathed, the way he could feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest with the prince this close. “I convinced you to take me out of the Citadel once. We made it past one of the gardens and to the road outside before one of the guards caught us and brought us back to my dad. He was furious, of course.” He gave a soft laugh. “And then you took the fall for it. Said it was your fault, not mine. I felt awful afterward.”

Ignis allowed himself a half smile. “Where did you think we might go? We would’ve been too young to travel the roads of the Crown City without proper guidance.”

“No idea,” Noctis said. “Guess I just wanted to get out.”

_So do I,_ Ignis thought abruptly. This thought came with the reminder that he hadn’t told Noctis where he had really gone, yet he decided to let the moment pass.

And in the next moment, he felt panic driving like a wedge through his chest again. If Ardyn were to find out that he’d taken his leave of the keep to lie idly in bed with the prince, who was supposed to have been one of his targets, he’d probably wind up incapacitated for weeks, or worse. He sat up too fast, causing spots to flicker in his vision and startling Noctis, who responded with a sharp intake of breath.

“I should go,” he said, again. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and rose to his feet before Noctis could protest. When he turned, he found the prince blinking at him from where he sat on the bed, his eyes still bleary, his hair mussed. In that moment, his body begged him to go back to kneeling on the bed next to Noctis, to take the prince into his arms for just a moment, just long enough to press a careful kiss to his mouth. Then he could disappear.

Ignis forced himself to look away, trying to remind himself not to want this. Yet he was already here, already feeling, already wanting.

“Do you need anything?” Noctis asked, freeing himself from the tangle of sheets. Standing on the other side of the bed, he looked over his shoulder at Ignis. “Or are you good to go?”

The responsible thing to do would be to refuse politely, to thank Noctis for letting him use the spare room at the very least, and say he’d see him some other time. But he dreaded returning to the keep. Even if he’d diverted Ardyn’s attention by completing that last assignment; even if Aranea seemed to have his back. If he left for the keep, he’d be losing Noctis again. _Again._ This was a kind of pain he didn’t know how to handle.

When Ignis hesitated, Noctis said, “Come with me. The kitchen’s out this way.”

He followed Noctis out of the room and into the kitchen, where he hovered uncertainly near a chair at the small table while Noctis opened the refrigerator door. He closed his eyes for a moment as he realized that he would never be able to invite Noctis over, seeing as how he didn’t actually have a place. Besides the cramped room he had in the keep, which didn’t count. He would never bring Noctis within a few hundred feet of the keep.

If he kept coming over to Noctis’s apartment and never offered up a place of his own, would Noctis start to get suspicious? Or would he guess that Ignis had appeared at his door because he was escaping from something—someone—where he usually spent his nights?

“So, um, it’s not very well stocked,” Noctis admitted. “But feel free to take whatever, I guess.”

For a moment, Ignis didn’t move. Living at the keep for so many years with no one else to take care of his meals, he’d had to learn how to cook—a skill that he’d never actually revealed to anyone else. He had no idea what Noctis was going to think of it.

He should just accept what Noctis had offered him and _go_ —

Ignis stood up, crossed to the refrigerator, and looked inside. Someone—maybe Noctis, maybe one of his retainers from the Citadel, Ignis didn’t know—had stacked various staples on each of the shelves. There were several empty spaces in between where other things had probably sat before. He noted that the clear plastic containers of vegetables looked untouched.

“If it’s all right with you, I can probably work with this.” The words were out of his mouth before he could think them through.

“Work with . . . ? Oh. You mean you want to make something?” Noctis asked.

Rather than take it back, Ignis nodded, still looking at the refrigerator. “I owe you,” he said.

“What? Ignis. You don’t owe me anything.” Noctis moved closer, so that he stood on the other side of the door, so that Ignis had no choice but to meet his eyes.

“Then consider it my choice to repay you anyway,” Ignis said. “Do you . . . dislike vegetables?”

Noctis laughed, a surprised sound that seemed to escape him despite his best intentions. “Uh—yeah, I’m not really a fan.”

“Something else, then.” Ignis half wondered if this was something he should have remembered about the prince. He gestured to the stacked containers of vegetables in the refrigerator. “You might inform whoever brought you these.”

“Trust me, I’ve tried,” Noctis said.

Ignis felt a small smile curve his lips. Still, avoiding the vegetables, he collected a few ingredients and laid them out on the counter.

“Do you want help?”

He turned to see Noctis leaning against the wall behind him, his eyebrows raised slightly.

He shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

Yet a few minutes later, water boiling on the stove and a kitchen knife poised over a cut of meat, Ignis’s hands recalled the sensation of taking his own blades to that soldier’s throat. His blood felt like ice in his veins, and his muscles froze. He couldn’t do this. He _couldn’t._

From the table on the other side of the small kitchen, Noctis said, “You okay?”

_No. No, I’m not._ He forced different words through his clenched teeth. “I’m fi—”

The next thing he knew, Noctis was pressed against his side, looking from him to the knife and back. Ignis had gripped the edge of the counter with both hands as if to keep from falling, his knuckles white. The knife lay on the counter. He didn’t know exactly how it had gotten there.

“Are you hurt?” Noctis asked him, his voice soft. Ignis didn’t know, but he didn’t feel any lingering pain and he didn’t remember cutting himself, so he shook his head. “What’s wrong?”

Ignis’s legs wouldn’t hold him. He felt his knees hit the tile floor, followed by Noctis’s hands on his shoulders. _Stop,_ he told himself. _Block it out. Stop reacting. You can’t let Noctis see this._ But his body wouldn’t respond. His lungs refused to draw in oxygen, and his muscles wouldn’t work.

He registered Noctis’s voice in his ear again. “Did something happen?”

“Yes,” he said, dismayed to hear his own voice breathy and insubstantial. He closed his eyes, rested his forehead on the cabinet doors in front of him, and willed his body to calm down, if only for Noctis’s sake.

“Do you . . .” Noctis hesitated. It occurred to Ignis that he probably wasn’t used to handling other people’s breakdowns—all the more reason he needed to pull himself together. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Whether he wanted to talk about it was irrelevant, Ignis thought distantly. The fact was that he couldn’t talk about it, period. _Should you be approached outside of an assignment, never reveal your work._

Ardyn’s voice was the last voice he wanted in his head right now.

Ignis was silent, and after a long moment he felt Noctis respond by slipping his arms around him, the gesture a little awkward with both of them kneeling on the cold floor. He felt his muscles tense in all sorts of new places when Noctis’s hands narrowly missed the knives hidden in his jacket. Would he even recognize them as blades, if he felt them? Ignis could only hope the answer was no.

But Noctis didn’t seem to notice, and he didn’t stop to ask, and for a while Ignis just let himself be held.

He couldn’t remember ever being able to yield so unconditionally to someone else’s warmth, and while the effect was strange and unfamiliar . . .

He wouldn’t trade it for anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! And again I'm very very sorry about the late update! I've been either busy or exhausted these past weeks, so I haven't been able to put in very much time on anything. With that said, a thousand thank yous to everyone who sent kudos or comments my way during that time! :)
> 
> Anyway, I hope to have a stable writing schedule soon, so I'll be able to post chapters more consistently! As always, feel free to comment here or talk to me on tumblr (and I'll certainly be around for Ignoct Week, lol).


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter was partially written to/inspired by the song ["Before I Sleep"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8l8CZSByC4) by Marika Hackman.)

For three days, Ignis avoided the keep altogether. He spent most of the days out in Insomnia, trying to keep a low profile and find some way to occupy himself at the same time, and he slept at Noctis’s apartment. At the end of the first day, when he’d returned to Noctis’s doorstep asking if he could stay there, the prince had looked more concerned than anything else. He’d agreed. He’d told Ignis that he’d likely be gone in the morning because of something he had to do at the Citadel, but that Ignis could let himself out at whatever time.

Ignis had felt the guilt gnawing uncomfortably at him at first, reminding him of what he owed Noctis all throughout that sleepless night and the next morning, but he returned to the kitchen and a few hours plus a few prepared meals later, things looked a little better. He stored the food in the fridge and ducked out of the apartment.

When he showed up at the door on the second night, still afraid to set foot in the keep, Noctis had looked significantly less shocked. He’d let Ignis in without a word. The door to the spare bedroom was closed but unlocked, waiting for him.

Ignis had woken in the middle of the night to find the prince back in his bed, fast asleep. He had no idea when Noctis had come into the room.

But he’d _slept._ For the first time in years, Ignis had slept without waking from nightmares, without waking to the compulsion to search the darkness and ensure he was completely alone. And in the morning, he didn’t feel like he’d just been dragged out of a grave.

By the third night, his arriving at Noctis’s door felt like routine. But before he could disappear into the spare bedroom, Noctis stopped him.

“Hey, um. Ignis.” He stood in the middle of the living room, across from the bedroom door and several feet away from where Ignis had one hand on the knob. “About yesterday. Do you think it would be okay if I just—?”

He broke off and made no effort to continue besides waving one hand vaguely in the air, so Ignis finished for him, “Slept here?”

Noctis nodded. For a moment, Ignis thought it looked like he was blushing.

“And what would your advisors have to say about that, Noctis?” he asked, trying to delay his answer. Better that Noctis didn’t know that he _wanted_ this. That last night he’d slept more soundly than he had in years.

“The same thing they said when we were both at the Citadel,” Noctis answered. “Nothing.”

Ignis felt a small smile curve his lips. “And is that because they had no opinion on the matter, or because you hid it from them?” he said, but didn’t wait for Noctis’s reply. “Fine. Come here.”

Noctis followed him to the spare bedroom, and he shut the door behind them. The lights were already off, so Ignis navigated the room mostly by feel, attempting to ease onto the bed without tripping over it. He had to bite back a gasp when he felt a hand wrap abruptly around his wrist and pull him down.

“ _Noctis_ ,” he said, meaning to admonish the prince but only managing it halfheartedly.

“Sorry,” Noctis said into his ear. He clearly wasn’t sorry at all. Ignis could practically feel him smiling.

“Go to sleep,” Ignis replied. He rolled over so that his back faced the prince, but not a moment later, he felt arms around his waist. Noctis whispered something into his shoulder. He said again, “Go to sleep, Noct.”

A long sigh from Noctis. “Okay,” he said finally.

Not long after that, he heard Noctis’s voice in the silence again. Ignis couldn’t be sure how much time had passed since he’d last spoken, as he’d already begun to drift off. He’d still be hours off from sleep had he chosen to return to his own quarters. “You haven’t called me that since we were both back in the Citadel.”

“What?”

A light tug on his shoulder, coaxing him to shift and face Noctis yet again. “You said, ‘Go to sleep, _Noct._ ’ I haven’t heard that from you since . . . since then.” Noctis’s face was shrouded in shadow, but there was something like hope in his expression. “You should call me that from now on.”

“I . . .” Too late, Ignis remembered his rule against building bridges. “We should talk about this tomorrow.”

“Mmm. Okay.” Noctis closed his eyes. He’d moved closer while Ignis was trying to regain his bearings, and now his forehead was pressed against Ignis’s collarbone. Ignis wasn’t sure how to respond. While the two of them had been this close the previous night, he hadn’t been awake when Noctis had taken the opposite side of the bed, when he’d curved his body to fill the open spaces that Ignis left.

They hadn’t had many chances to talk these past few days, as Noctis had been at the Citadel and Ignis had been too exhausted. He’d told himself every time that it was for the better. But then his body had adjusted unconsciously to Noctis sleeping beside him and he’d forgotten how to stay at a safe distance.

He drew in a deep breath. Tomorrow, he would have to decide whether to return to the keep. He’d been away three days now and if Ardyn had decided to burden him with some new assignment, he wouldn’t have been there to receive the summons. If he stayed out any longer, Ardyn might mistake his silence for desertion.

His throat felt tight. He could leave in the early hours of the morning, before Noctis woke, to avoid questions. Or he could leave after Noctis had departed for the Citadel. If he was indeed due at the Citadel—and whether he was, Ignis didn’t know, because they hadn’t spoken.

Then again, it wasn’t as if Noctis had asked where he’d been going during the days before. Maybe he wouldn’t ask now. Maybe Ignis could just slip out, claiming some vague responsibility.

But that outcome had too many variables. If he left in the early morning . . . he’d face no opposition from the prince.

Shutting his eyes, he shifted closer to Noctis.

He left at dawn.

 

* * *

 

The whole way back to the keep, Ignis felt Noctis’s absence like a cold cloak that he couldn’t shake off, along with a lurking sense of dread. The possibilities regarding his return circled each other in his mind. Ardyn might leave him alone, or he might summon Ignis for an assignment briefing right away. Or maybe Ignis had stayed away too long already, and he was walking straight back into the punishment. Perhaps Ardyn had even made the decision to dispose of him already.

Whatever the consequences, Ignis would have to accept them without flinching. As Aranea had told him. And for Noctis.

He arrived at the door to the keep with his shoulders squared, one hand hovering near a blade in his jacket. The stairwell to the floor that housed his and the others’ quarters was empty and silent, and he encountered no one on the way up. When he opened the door that led into the hallway, no one accosted him. The taps of his shoes against the floor were the only sounds in the hallway.

He paused at the door to his quarters, deciding at the last moment to seek out Aranea and ask about the last three days.

Aranea opened the door only to squint at him and stand back from the threshold. The room behind her was near pitch-black. “Where the hell have _you_ been?” she asked him. “I was starting to think you were KIA.”

“A rather rude way to greet someone you haven’t seen in a while,” Ignis shot back. “Do you mind if I come in?”

She snorted, but shoved the door back a little farther. “Sure, whatever.”

Ignis stepped into the room, and Aranea shut the door, striding to the window and throwing the curtains back. Light flooded the room, revealing the place where his fellow assassin spent some of her idle hours. A partition separated the room. Beside the window stood a small, unsteady table and two chairs, a place where the two of them had often sat in the past. Ignis remembered, years before, resting his head on his forearms while Aranea sat across from him, murmuring something about how it’d get easier.

Now she stopped at the edge of the table, setting a tall glass bottle down hard on the weathered wood surface. “You want a drink?” she asked.

“It’s six in the morning.”

“I just got done with an assignment. I don’t give a goddamn what time it is.” She strode to the other side of the room to retrieve a glass and set it down on the table, filling it imprecisely. Sliding into the chair across from him, she asked, “All right. What’s going on?”

“Has Ardyn been looking for me?” Ignis asked almost under his breath, as if to make sure their employer couldn’t hear him.

“Not yet. But he’s probably suspicious.” Aranea squinted at him. “Why? Where did you go?”

“Nowhere of interest.”

A blatant lie, and one she no doubt recognized. Aranea leaned back in her chair. “Specs, I don’t know what’s going on with you, and it’s not my job to find out. But if there’s something you need to tell me, then _tell me_.” When Ignis kept his gaze fixed on the window instead of meeting her eyes, she said, “And you better be watching your back out there. Even I have no idea how much Ardyn knows.” She drained the glass in her hand and set it down again.

“I’m aware,” he said in a low voice. While he trusted Aranea, and didn’t believe that she would go to Ardyn with anything that he told her, he also had no intention of informing her of what had happened between him and the Crown Prince. “I just . . . needed to make sure I wouldn’t be paying for my absence with my life.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Aranea shook her head. “Haven’t seen much of him lately, though, if I’m honest. He let me go a couple days without any work. I think he’s been giving most of the jobs to Ravus, and from what I’ve heard, they’ve been reconnaissance, more than anything. Not that reconnaissance isn’t anything to be worried about.” She refilled her glass. “He must have something up his sleeve, if he’s got his right-hand man out investigating. But I don’t know.”

“Indeed.”

She propped her chin on her hand and sighed, reaching across the table for the bottle, but rather than pour from it she simply lifted and examined it. “Something’s not right, anyway.”

It was then that Ignis thought to ask, “Aranea—who was your target?”

She set the bottle down abruptly but didn’t reply.

“Aranea.” He tried to meet her eyes, yet she wouldn’t look up. “Who did you kill?”

“A member of the king’s court,” she said, her eyes closed. “King Regis’s court, that is. Ardyn told me to make it look like a disappearance. I don’t think anyone’s realized he’s dead yet.”

“And his name?”

She shook her head. “Trust me, you’re better off not knowing.”

“Am I?” Ignis asked, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. “This is getting out of hand. He won’t stop until he’s cleared a path to the Crown Prince, and by that time, he’ll have left a trail of bodies behind. They’ll find us—we’ll be marked as terrorists. Executed.”

“We were always bound for it one way or another,” Aranea said. “We’re worth nothing to him, anyway. We’re no more than weapons as far as Ardyn’s concerned.”

_You will be the flawless weapon I have always needed in my arsenal._ Ardyn’s voice echoed in Ignis’s mind again. He dropped his head into his hands, murmuring, “Aranea, _please_ tell me that’s the liquor talking.”

She huffed a laugh and pushed her chair back. “It probably is,” she said. “And the sleep deprivation. That assignment was torture.” Ignis glanced up to see her replacing the bottle in the storage cabinet where she’d found it. “Unless you have anything else to report, get out of my room. I need to sleep.” Though her words were sharp, he glimpsed the beginnings of a smile on her lips.

“Yes, of course,” Ignis said with a teasing half-bow. After all, the only news he had was that of his new sleeping arrangements, but he wasn’t about to inform her of those, anyway. “Until next time.” He swept out of the room, slipping into the dim hallway again.

Ignis walked slowly back to his quarters, a few doors down the hall. Several steps away, he felt that unnatural cold wrap around his shoulders again, and he stopped. In the silence he thought he could hear a voice whispering, but he couldn’t make out the words. For a moment he didn’t dare move. He could only strain to hear the distant voice and wonder whether it could be a warning, or if perhaps he was just imagining things. Then—all at once—the temperature returned to normal, and the voice vanished into the silence.

The door to the stairwell swung open, and their employer stepped out.

“Scientia. What a coincidence, that I should find you here,” Ardyn said with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you for quite some time now.”

Ignis felt his body go still, the way it did when he prepared to make a kill. He tried to keep his face impassive. Stood with his feet apart, not enough to be noticeable, but enough to allow him an easy running start, should he need it. Forced his hands down at his sides, his breathing to steady, his heart to stop racing.

Ardyn paused a few feet in front of him. Ignis felt that he was too close, even though to anyone looking on he would’ve appeared to be standing a normal distance away. He wanted to take a step back from his employer, but he forbade himself to. He could show no weakness.

“I’ve been thinking at length about your next assignment,” Ardyn said, tapping one finger thoughtfully against his lips. “But time and time again when I thought to speak to you about it, I noticed—you haven’t been here. Not at all.” He leveled his gaze at Ignis. “In case you were wondering, it was partially your fellow assassins who sold you out. Ravus said he saw you leaving. And both times I met with Aranea, she said she hadn’t seen you. Not once.”

“You granted me leave, and I took it,” Ignis said carefully when Ardyn didn’t continue.

“Hmm.” The smirk that played on Ardyn’s lips unsettled Ignis. “Well. I suppose you do have a point. Yet I still feel somehow . . . rejected.”

Ignis said nothing.

“In any case, Scientia, I’ve come to this conclusion.” Ardyn stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I cannot bring myself to give your old assignment to anyone else. Yours is still the Crown Prince of Lucis.”

Ignis felt anger flare in his chest, and he recalled the last three nights he’d spent with the very prince of whom Ardyn spoke. They had been the most peaceful three nights of his life, and yet—Ardyn wanted Ignis to silence him forever. When he had done absolutely nothing to deserve it.

“I . . . don’t . . . see . . . why you should want him dead.”

The words hung in the air between them. There. He’d done it. He couldn’t take it back now.

Nor could Ardyn take back the blow he dealt Ignis to follow.

Before he could think about it, Ignis was stumbling back several steps, so that his shoulders collided with the wall. He brought the back of his hand to his mouth and it came away stained crimson. There were tears in his eyes, not from fear or pain, but from the sheer shock of the blow, and the left side of his face throbbed. He registered dimly that things were blurry at the edges, and realized that this was because he’d lost his glasses.

“And since when do you consider it your place to question my orders?” Ardyn asked, any civility having vanished from his expression. He paused as if to let Ignis answer, but Ignis could taste blood in his mouth and didn’t say anything. “I have reasons, and you have means. If you can’t do it, well, then I have no more use for you.”

Ignis felt his nostrils flare, his chest constrict with the sudden wave of anger that crashed over him. He was worth more than this. _More than this._

He spat at Ardyn’s feet.

“Worthless bastard,” Ardyn snarled.

Before he could make a break for it, Ignis found himself pinned against the wall, his employer’s hands wrapped around his throat. He fought for breath but couldn’t seem to draw it.

“You listen to me, Scientia,” Ardyn snapped. “Just doing what I’ve asked of you for ten whole years doesn’t give you the right to oppose me now. Try again, and so help me, I will kill you. Do you understand?”

Ignis, struggling for breath, couldn’t respond. Ardyn released him, shoving him back against the wall.

“You will take care of the Crown Prince of Lucis,” he said, his voice low and deadly. “And when you do, don’t forget, I need the ring from his hand.”

He turned his back and swept through the hallway, vanishing behind one of the doors that led to a stairwell. A soft click signaled that the door had closed, leaving the hallway vacant again. Ignis fell to his knees, the ground swimming before him.

_The ring from his hand._ Had Noctis been wearing a ring? And what did this ring signify? Ignis tried to swallow, but his throat felt as if it were swelling shut. He ended up fighting back a sob instead.

He thought back to last night, and the night before that, to Noctis’s hands on his wrists and around his waist. He didn’t remember feeling the cold metal of a ring encircling his finger then—certainly he would have, if Noctis had been wearing one. He might’ve realized sooner that the other side of the prince’s bed belonged to someone else.

Then again, why would Ardyn need such a ring? As proof? Because it would be worth a fortune on the black market? Or because the ring was more than a simple wedding band?

Ignis attempted another steadying breath, but his throat still ached and his lungs burned. He pressed a hand gingerly against his neck. He’d have bruises by tomorrow.

So. Ardyn’s abuse of him was more than a scare tactic. Those wounds were signals to anyone close to him that he was _property_. They rendered him unable to go to someone like Noctis without shame. Without questions. Without his secrets hanging in the air between them, still unidentified, unspoken.

Bowing his head, Ignis confronted his unrelenting need to be by the prince’s side. He’d find some way to cover the bruises if it meant a few more minutes with him. And it might never be more than a few minutes, now that he had the burden of this assignment to bear.

He could not kill Noctis. No matter what Ardyn said.

 

* * *

 

A couple of restless nights and a tense, quiet morning at the keep found Ignis back out on the streets of Insomnia in the car that Ardyn had once loaned him. He tried to convince himself not to return to Noctis’s apartment, but after all the detours he could think of, he still found himself on the prince’s doorstep again. He checked his watch. It was the middle of the afternoon—Noctis probably wouldn’t even be here.

Sure enough, when he tapped his knuckles against the door and waited, there was no answer.

_He’s not here,_ Ignis told himself. But fear chose that moment to sink its talons into his chest. What if Ardyn had decided to send someone else in Ignis’s place after all? What if Ardyn himself had gone after Noctis?

Those thoughts were irrational and he knew it, but they still made his chest ache and his hands tremble. He pressed one hand against the door and tried not to sink to his knees. He’d come back in a few hours.

He passed the time parking on an out-of-the-way street and wandering the city’s commercial district in a daze, Ardyn’s voice echoing in his head as it usually did on bad days, noticing the fleeting glances that passersby cast at his bruised throat where his collar didn’t cover the skin. The sun shifted in the sky, and after checking his watch for the thousandth time, Ignis finally decided to make his way back to Noctis’s apartment.

The street that led to the building was busier than usual, and he ended up circling back around the block and parking on another street. From there, he walked back to Noctis’s apartment, keeping his head down so that no one would look twice at him. The light had just begun to cast longer shadows over the city—not quite enough darkness to disappear completely.

He rolled his shoulders and closed his eyes before knocking on the door again. _Please let him be here._ A heartbeat passed, two, three, four. _Please._

The door swung open. Noctis stood behind it, dressed in casual dark clothes, his hair its usual organized chaos, his blue eyes sleepy. He looked a little surprised to see Ignis standing in the shadows of the hallway.

“Hey,” he said. “You came back. What’s up?”

“I need a place to spend the night,” Ignis exhaled, the sentence a sigh of relief that Noctis was there at all.

A smile tugged at Noctis’s mouth. “Well, that’s very forward of you.” When Ignis opened his mouth to protest, he shook his head. “Just teasing, Ignis. Come in.”

As the door shut behind them, Noctis asked, “So . . . what’s going on? How have the last few days been?”

Ignis turned to face him, prepared to tell some lie about how things had been fine and he’d just been too busy to stay in touch, but when Noctis’s eyes found the bruises at his throat, his eyes widened. The expression on his face stopped Ignis from speaking.

“What _happened?”_ he breathed, crossing the room to where Ignis stood in just a few strides. “These are _bruises,_ Ignis. Did someone try to—to strangle you?”

“Nothing happened. I’m fine. It’s just—”

“Is that why you haven’t been here?” Noctis demanded. “Because you’re wounded? Because someone hurt you? Just tell me who did this. I can send someone to find them. Or _something._ ”

Ignis shook his head. “I can’t tell you, Noct,” he stammered softly. “I’m sorry.” After a beat of silence, he added, “And if that’s against your moral code, I’ll just go.”

“No.” Noctis reached out and took hold of his wrist. Ignis flinched at his sudden touch, and Noctis, noticing this, let go. “You shouldn’t have to deal with this on your own.”

Ignis’s breath caught. “I know.”

Noctis shifted a half step closer, as if he were asking permission, and Ignis granted it, not moving from where he stood. A few heartbeats later, Noctis was reaching out for him, his fingertips fluttering around the edges of the bruises. Ignis drew in a breath.

He felt the heat of Noctis’s body against his, and he barely had a moment to revel and remember, to take in that feeling, before Noctis’s chin settled against his collarbone. His breath warmed Ignis’s throat, and his lips touched the skin there softly. The contact brought a short, dull throb of pain and intense rushes of pleasure at once, and Ignis tipped his head back with a low moan.

_I should step away,_ Ignis thought distantly. Yet Noctis was gentle, and every movement that he made sent little shivers across Ignis’s skin. He kissed each inch of skin between Ignis’s collarbone and the place where the bruises stopped, sometimes short, other times allowing himself to linger for a moment before moving on. A few times his tongue flicked past his lips, and Ignis stifled a gasp at the feeling.

And Noctis whispered apologies. Ignis lost himself in the flow of Noctis’s voice, and he heard few of the words murmured into his skin, but occasionally it was a simple “I’m sorry” and the sincerity of it made Ignis want to weep. Noctis had done nothing to cause this.

Eventually Noctis moved past the bruises, placing a slow, careful kiss on Ignis’s jaw, pausing there as if waiting for permission again. His hands slid to frame Ignis’s face. The next kiss found Noctis’s lips at the corner of his mouth, hesitant, trembling. And in the heartbeat after, Noctis’s lips lingered mere inches from his, so that they breathed the same air, everything frozen around them. If he leaned forward, he could capture the prince’s mouth with his own, feel the soft ecstasy of those kisses. He could—

“Noctis,” he breathed, pulling away. “Don’t.”

“What?” Noctis jolted back, looking alarmed.

“Don’t kiss me,” Ignis said. His voice wavered. _I already want you too much._ “I don’t think I can—” A lie. _I could, and it would be so easy. Easy as breathing. And you, my prince, would have me ensnared forever. With me unable to protect you from what is to come._

“No, it’s okay.” Noctis swallowed, his throat bobbing, and stepped back. “I understand.” But his face was flushed, and his eyes avoided Ignis’s, his lashes flickering to cover them as he looked away. He licked his lips. Ignis wanted to sweep in and take the prince into his arms in earnest, to taste those lips—but he didn’t know if he would be able to ignore the taste of the lies he’d told.

“This is my fault,” he said, his voice escaping as no more than a whisper. “My apologies, Your Highness. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this. I should just—” He gestured toward the bedroom door behind him.

Noctis shook his head. “Don’t you dare apologize for this, Ignis.” His tone was almost forceful. “ _None_ of this is your fault. Not those bruises, not this. Stop blaming yourself. Please.” Taking a deep breath, he said in a softer voice, “If you need to rest, I won’t stop you.”

Ignis pressed his lips together, hesitating.

“Unless—you want me to join you,” Noctis added after a moment, the words like a sigh.

“Yes.”

Before Ignis could turn to the bedroom door, Noctis stepped forward and took one of his hands, lifting it to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of his palm. The feeling of the prince’s lips on his skin again warmed his blood, but he couldn’t turn away. He kept his eyes on Noctis until Noctis relinquished his hand.

Ignis moved to the bedroom door, pushing it softly open and allowing Noctis to follow him. As Noctis hung back to shut the door, he shrugged off his jacket, careful not to disturb the knives hiding in the lining, and hung it on one of the posts at the end of the bed. He pulled off his glasses, setting them on the table next to the bed. Noctis appeared at his side moments later.

“Is this okay?” he asked, and when Ignis looked to him, he saw that Noctis’s eyes had flicked to the bruises at the base of his throat again.

“It’s fine,” Ignis managed.

“Just . . . tell me,” Noctis said softly, twining his fingers with Ignis’s, “if that changes.” A few heartbeats passed, and he added, “And don’t leave in the morning.” The request came out like a question.

“Of course.”

They lay down together, Noctis curving his body to fit against Ignis’s. His warmth filled a space that those few nights at the keep had opened back up. Finally, he could dare to relax, let his guard down, close his eyes. What he wouldn’t give for a different life. A life of this.

He wouldn’t go back to the keep, he decided. Not ever. Not if Ardyn threatened him, not if one of the others came after him. Noctis’s life was worth far more than his ever would be.

To have that blood on his hands—it would destroy him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *coughs* jeez, I know what I said about trying to get this chapter out in good time, but it's been over a month... sorry sorry sorry D:
> 
> Anyway, thank you to everyone for the support in the meantime! <3


	6. Chapter 6

Noctis slept late the next morning, and though Ignis would have been content to lie there until he woke, the part of him that rose early for assignments was restless. He slipped out of bed before Noctis even stirred, promising himself silently that he’d return.

Rather than leave the apartment, he stepped into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator again. The food that he’d left there last time was gone, replaced with several containers of fresh ingredients. He sifted his way through them until he came up with dishes in which he could use them, and he went to work.

Noctis emerged from the spare bedroom when he was well into the process, rubbing his eyes and blinking at the flourishes of warm sunlight from the windows. “Ignis,” he said sleepily before shuffling into the kitchen. “You know, that’s twice now that you’ve lied to me.” Though the words were harsh, his tone wasn’t.

Still, Ignis felt a twist of regret at hearing this. What lies of his had Noctis unraveled? He looked back at the prince, uneasy.

A heartbeat later, Noctis slid his arms around Ignis’s waist, burying his face in Ignis’s shoulder blade. “I forgive you.”

Ignis felt his muscles tense and then relax at Noctis’s closeness. “For what, exactly?”

“Well, that one night before you left,” Noctis said, settling his chin on Ignis’s shoulder, “you said you were tired, and that we’d talk in the morning. But when I woke up, you weren’t even there.” He paused. “And this time you promised not to leave in the morning, but you did anyway.”

“I would’ve come back as soon as I finished here,” Ignis told him. “I didn’t believe I’d see you out of bed so soon.”

“Mmm.” Several heartbeats passed before Noctis continued. “I was also going to ask why you went to all the trouble of making me food after I told you that you didn’t owe me anything.”

“Because you’re wrong, Noct,” Ignis said, a small smile pulling at one side of his mouth. “I owe you everything. And since you clearly don’t have time for this, I thought I’d take care of it for you.”

Noctis laughed softly. “There it is again,” he murmured. “Don’t stop calling me that. It’s endearing, from you.”

At this Ignis felt warmth rush to his face and, certain that he was blushing, he looked down. When he saw Noctis’s hands, fingers curled into his black shirt, he caught sight of what he hadn’t before.

A dark ring gleamed on his right hand.

Ignis’s throat constricted again. He closed his eyes. _Don’t do this,_ he told himself. _Don’t let Ardyn in. Don’t let Noctis know._

But Noctis sensed the shift in him. “Everything okay?” he asked.

Ardyn’s voice whispered, _Oppose me again, and so help me, I will kill you._

“You—your ring,” Ignis began finally.

“Oh. It’s nothing like that,” Noctis said. “It belonged to my dad. He passed it to me when he—well. You know.”

“Ah.” Ignis took a breath, hoping Noctis would attribute his anxiety to the fact that his ring might’ve signified a relationship. “I’m sorry.” He meant it in more ways than one.

“Ignis, it’s not your fault,” Noctis said. “Hey, shouldn’t you be making sure you don’t burn anything?”

“If you’ll unhand me,” Ignis said, an attempt at teasing.

“You don’t want me here?” Noctis pouted. He peered over Ignis’s shoulder. “Are those _vegetables?”_

“I thought it was worth a try.”

Noctis gave a halfhearted groan and stepped back from Ignis. “Well, you’ve been warned,” he said, smirking a little.

He perched in one of the chairs at the kitchen’s small table while Ignis worked. A few minutes passed before he said, “I . . . um. I’ll let you . . . I should shower and stuff before I head out. They need me at the Citadel.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.”

When Ignis glanced back at him, he could’ve sworn Noctis’s face was flushed. But the prince stood up and left the kitchen without another word.

Ignis listened to the background sounds of Noctis moving around the apartment while he finished up, half wondering what that had been about.

He had washed most of the dishes he’d used and was putting the last of them away when Noctis returned, his hair still damp, dressed in a full suit. He looked a few years older, somehow. Ignis paused to meet his eyes as he crossed the kitchen.

“Don’t hurt yourself while I’m gone,” he murmured, pressing his lips to Ignis’s cheek.

He took an apple from the fridge and picked up a bag that sat near the front door before he departed, but to Ignis it seemed as if he’d vanished in an instant. He didn’t move for several long moments even after the door closed.

In the silence, he picked up one of the kitchen knives still left on the counter, the blade ringing slightly. He held it out in front of him, remembering again Ardyn’s orders to put his knives to use. And it occurred to him that he might have convinced Ardyn that this arrangement would benefit both of them, that it would allow Ignis to get closer to the prince and bring him a swifter, easier end. He could have stalled for more time.

But he hadn’t tried. And now, by staying here . . . he likely faced certain death.

He replaced the knives and left the kitchen, quickly, returning to the spare bedroom where he’d left his jacket. It still hung on the end of the bed, untouched. The knives still hid inside.

Was he protecting Noctis, or pushing him away with his lies? The thought turned his stomach. Just like that, he needed a distraction again.

Abandoning his jacket, he pushed past the door to the spare bedroom, moving through the hall and toward Noctis’s bedroom door. He remembered it from the first night he’d seen Noctis’s apartment, and he felt a shock of nervous energy at the thought of entering. Carefully, he bypassed the bedroom and stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

A minute later, he stood in the shower, under a stream of warm water. A plea to his body to forget the blood pulsing beneath his target’s skin just before he died, to forget Ardyn’s touch, to forget even Noctis’s touch for now, lest he confuse them. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back. Even let himself run his hands through his hair. _Inhale. Exhale._

When he opened his eyes and looked down, he saw the shower floor stained pink with the water that ran off his body. Did he really still have blood on him? Perhaps it was embedded so deep that he would never be able to fully cleanse himself of it. So many layers, so much old blood. He shivered.

He scrubbed at his arms, his hands, the spaces under his nails until his skin felt raw. Yet the water still looked as if it were tinted pink by residual blood. _Please,_ he thought, looking helplessly toward the drain, _no more of this._

A distraction. He had to think of something, anything, else. But everything he thought back to, each moment he’d spent away from the keep and with Noctis, was tinged with guilt. Guilt that he’d chosen to disobey Ardyn again, and that he couldn’t seem to stop lying or just avoiding the truth.

He shut off the water with a sudden motion of his hand, not pausing to watch it disappear. He dressed again, grabbed his jacket from the spare bedroom, and left the apartment behind.

He’d just closed the door behind him when he glanced up and saw someone else farther down the hall. Watching him.

The guy was practically pure muscle, and his arms, only half masked by the short sleeves of his leather jacket, were covered in ink. He had dark hair, and his face was arranged in a suspicious expression. Ignis had the space of a second to hope the guy wasn’t looking at him before those hopes were dashed.

“Hey,” he called, striding straight for Ignis. He stopped only a couple of steps away—too close for the space to be comfortable, close enough for Ignis to draw a blade on him—and crossed his arms over his chest. Ignis could only stand his ground as the guy’s eyes drew an unforgiving path over his body, sizing him up. Determining whether he was a threat. “Who the hell are you?”

“I was just leaving.” Ignis swallowed. “I’m—a friend. Of—” He gestured to the apartment behind him.

“Of Noct’s?” The guy tipped his head to one side. “Then how come I’ve never seen you before?”

_Stay calm,_ Ignis reminded himself. _Play the part. This isn’t new._ “Do you presume to know all of His Highness’s friends?”

“Course not, but I know the close ones,” the guy answered. “The ones worthy of his trust. And you ain’t one of them.”

“Then who, might I ask, are you?”

The guy took another step forward. “I’m his shield. His bodyguard. And if I wanted to, I could—”

His hand slid into the folds of his jacket as if to pull out a weapon, and Ignis reacted without thinking. A heartbeat later, he had the guy pinned against the wall, a knife at his throat.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Noctis’s bodyguard gritted his teeth, looking down at Ignis as if he were lower than dirt. “What the hell are you doing, wandering around Noctis’s apartment with a knife?”

Ignis didn’t respond, but his grip on the knife relaxed a fraction. _Six._ Drawing the knife had been a wrong move. He had to find a way out of this before one of them died.

“You don’t know him,” Noctis’s bodyguard hissed. “You’re another goddamn thief. Or the assassin they’re after. You could’ve harmed him.” He paused. “And that makes you my problem.”

Ignis pressed his lips together, his hand faltering, caught between needing to run and wanting to stand his ground—

He heard a click, felt the barrel of a gun at his throat, and then his shoulders collided with the floor hard, followed by the back of his head. The impact sent his vision blurring, but he scrambled to his feet, throwing out a hand to retrieve his lost knife. His hand brushed only empty floor.

“I should bring you back to the Citadel in handcuffs. But I won’t.”

A hand clamped around his abused throat, pushing him back against the wall, while the cold metal of a gun pressed against his temple. Ignis closed his eyes to stop the room from spinning. _If Noctis were here, I’d be spared._ He repeated this to himself over and over, trying to convince himself of it even as the words rang false.

“I usually use swords,” Noctis’s bodyguard said, quietly, “but that could get messy.”

_Move,_ Ignis’s instincts begged him. _Now is a very, very bad time to freeze._

He flew, becoming a blur of motion. His knife found its mark in the guy’s shoulder, and he accepted the loss of the weapon as he ducked out of his grip and dashed down the hall, his feet barely meeting the floor. The gun clattered to the floor and fired off a random shot behind him, the bullet burrowing into the wall.

He’d disappear as he always did. He’d vanish behind the door and become no more than a shadow. He’d—

Behind him, he heard Noctis’s bodyguard swearing, shouting, throwing Ignis’s knife to the ground. He yelled something after Ignis about making sure that the Kingsglaive would have his head for this.

Ignis hardly listened to any of it. He ran.

The alleys in the city’s commercial districts threw shadows over him several minutes later as he stopped, bending over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard from running. He’d attacked Noctis’s _bodyguard,_ and after he’d sworn not to bring Noctis into this. No matter that his actions had been in self-defense, or that his training ran so deep that he hadn’t even consciously decided to attack the guy. This was an assault on Noctis’s safety—that which he had tried so hard to keep intact.

Had it all been for nothing? Would Noctis throw him out for this? Would he send the Kingsglaive after Ignis, and hunt him down like the criminal he was?

Ignis took a deep breath and let it out in a long hiss. _“Shit.”_

He pulled the remaining knives from his jacket and threw them against the wall, one by one. They filled the air with the music of ringing steel as they collided with the stone and fell to the ground. When the sound had subsided, he laid into the wall with his fist, throwing punches over and over and over until he thought he would break something, swearing through his teeth as he went.

His knuckles were bruised and bloody and swollen by the time he’d finished. He pressed his forehead to the stone and squeezed his eyes shut.

“I can’t do this,” he whispered.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and Ignis whirled around. He locked eyes with Aranea.

“How did I know I’d find you out here?” she asked, her voice low. Her eyes immediately flicked to his hand, hanging limp by his side and wet with blood. “What have you been _doing?”_

Ignis realized he was biting his lip and tried to stop, tried to keep his expression neutral. Biting his lip was too _unlike him_ and he knew Aranea recognized that by the way she was looking at him. She started for him, her steps cautious.

Suddenly he couldn’t meet her eyes. “I may have . . . lost my temper.”

Aranea looked down, her eyes following the trail of knives he’d left on the ground. “Ignis.”

He shook his head, even as she reached out and twined fingers around his wrist, lifting his hand so that she could examine it. She studied his bleeding knuckles for much longer than was necessary—of course she, an assassin, would know right away where the wounds had come from. For a while, the soft roar of distant cars and the breaths they took were the only sounds. Perhaps Aranea, even sharp-tongued and brusque as she was, had to search for words.

“You’re out of control,” she said. “Whatever this is, Ignis, you have to stop it. If you don’t, you’re going to lose your life somehow.”

He jerked his hand from her grasp, though the motion made pain arc through each of his fingers. After a moment, he said, “I made a mistake.”

Aranea raised an eyebrow.

“I attacked someone who wasn’t a target. He must have been a member of the Kingsglaive, or the Crownsguard—something. And I—I left him alive. He’s going to tell the prince exactly what he saw.” His eyes burned, but no tears came. “And Noc—the prince remembers me from when we were children. I can’t bring him to harm. I can’t let him down like this. I am—”

“What do you mean?” Aranea asked, tipping her head slightly to the side. “About the prince remembering you?”

Ignis swallowed. Only he knew the whole story—Ardyn didn’t know about Noctis, Noctis didn’t know about Ardyn, and Aranea didn’t know much about either. “If I tell you,” he whispered, “I need you to promise you’ll never breathe a word to Ardyn. Even if he asks. Even if he demands to know.”

“Okay. Deal.”

He took a deep breath. His hand throbbed. It was as if he’d just started to feel the pain.

“You know Ardyn sent me to kill the prince. And I couldn’t.” His voice shook. Already he wished he could start over. “I went out the next night. I couldn’t sleep. Somehow I met the prince—and he was absolutely oblivious. Didn’t know I’d been sent to kill him in his own bed. He said something about how he remembered me from when we were both younger, and I thought he’d mistaken me for someone else. No. He called me by name.” He paused, unsure for a moment how to describe what had happened next. “We talked things out. I—I’ve been sleeping at his apartment.”

When he finally found the confidence to look Aranea in the eye, he saw that both her eyebrows were raised.

“You’re sleeping with the prince of Lucis.”

“Yes, but—” Ignis pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not like that. It’s more—”

“It doesn’t fucking matter how it is. You’re sharing a bed with the guy Ardyn wants you to kill. And he’s the goddamn _prince of Lucis._ ” She gave a sharp, bitter laugh, her hands balanced on her hips and her face tipped back toward the sky. “It all makes sense.”

They both fell silent for a while. When Ignis finally broke the silence, he said, “I have to fix this. I can’t keep putting both our lives in danger—his and mine.”

“Why did you start seeing him? You know what Ardyn would do if he found out.” She asked as if she were curious, rather than with derision.

“I . . .” A heartbeat after the word left his mouth, Ignis realized how the rest of the sentence would sound out loud. No matter Aranea’s curiosity about the matter, she would laugh if he voiced the reason. “I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie, Ignis. Don’t even start with me. I know you think through things more than that.” He winced at her tone, and she softened her voice. “You wouldn’t have done it without a reason, right?”

“Yes,” he said, but it came out like a question. He didn’t elaborate, and Aranea remained silent, waiting for him to continue. “I—I don’t remember a thing about him, but he told me he remembered me. He’s told me so much.”

“And you believe him.”

Ignis nodded once. “He knows things about me that no one else does. That I hadn’t told him.”

Aranea drew breath to say something else, but seemed to decide against it at the last second. She fell silent for a long moment. At last she reached out and placed a gentle, steadying hand on his shoulder. “I think we need to go back to the keep and get you taken care of. Your hand is a mess,” she said. “Tell Ardyn you scoped out the building where he lives and have been following him. If he asks.”

“I can’t,” Ignis said. “Not in the middle of a job. He’ll kill me.”

“He won’t. You’ve been in his service for _years_ , Ignis. He wouldn’t want to lose your skills now.”

“He doesn’t need us,” Ignis said, his voice taking on a desperate curve. “He’s said that—his skills are far superior to all of ours.”

Aranea snorted. “You believe that bullshit? He just tells everybody that because he wants us to do his dirty work without questioning him. He’s probably retired. Or he injured himself cheating death one too many times.”

“I can’t go back there,” Ignis breathed. “I can’t, I just—can’t.”

Another long silence. “Then we need to get you to a medic,” Aranea said.

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, Aranea knew a medic who lived on the outskirts of Insomnia, a woman named Luna who specialized in many different healing techniques. She went to work on Ignis’s bruised, swollen knuckles almost right away. Aranea leaned against the wall beside one of the medical cots behind a screen, where Ignis sat, while Luna knelt on the floor in front of him, gently and dutifully dabbing the blood from between his fingers. She cleaned and bandaged the wounds in silence.

“What do you need?” Aranea asked her when she had finished. “For this?”

Luna shook her head. “There is no cost,” she said.

Aranea argued with her while Ignis sat and pressed the side of his face to the cold brick wall. He closed his eyes and focused on the dull throb in his hand. Thought about Noctis and how good it would feel to be in his arms. About how he couldn’t go back to Noctis. About what he would say when he went back to Noctis, how many times he would apologize. About how goddamn tired he was.

Next thing he knew, Aranea was shaking him awake out of a light, troubled sleep. She bent down a little to look him in the eye, her expression unusually concerned. “Ignis? We should go.”

He blinked, rubbed his eyes. “Settled up with Luna?”

“Yeah, I guess.” She glanced toward the window. “It’s getting late. Do you have somewhere to stay?”

“I’ll find a place.”

“All right.” Aranea backed up a couple of steps, still watching him as if he might shatter at any moment. “Then it’s probably best if we part ways here.”

Ignis nodded and rose from the medical cot while Luna watched the two of them from several feet away. Before either of them could leave, she took a step forward and addressed Ignis. “You must take care next time,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “Of not just your hand, but your whole self.”

“I can’t promise anything,” Ignis said almost under his breath.

Aranea shook her head and stepped between them. “No, Ignis, you’re wrong. In fact, I want you to promise both of us right now. I don’t care what your circumstances are. I don’t care what happened with Ardyn or anyone else. You have the prince to take care of now, too, and you can do better than _this_ for both of you,” she snapped, jabbing a finger in his direction. “As for work, I don’t care if you start _faking_ deaths—just do _something._ I’m sick of watching you waste away.”

Ignis chanced a look at Luna, but she’d closed her eyes, her chin nearly touching her collarbone. She had her hands clasped in front of her as if she were praying. “Aranea—”

“No. No excuses,” Aranea said. “You’re trying to tell me you’re willing to risk your life for the prince, but that’s not true at all. You gave up on your life. You just want it to end.”

Ignis pressed a fist against his mouth. He couldn’t speak. He could contradict her all he wanted, but in a way, she was right. Despite this thing between him and Noctis, he still didn’t feel like he had any right to live.

“Ignis, say something. _Fight back,”_ Aranea said, her voice rising. “Ardyn is not Death himself, and you aren’t weak.”

“He spent ten years telling me I was a mere weapon and that I could be broken. That I could never be anything else. I don’t even _remember_ being anything else.” Ignis shook his head. “This isn’t like taking off a jacket.”

“Maybe not, but you’ve got to start trying.”

“I _have_ tried,” Ignis hissed. “And when I’ve so much as blinked at Ardyn wrong, he’s—well.” He gestured to the still-fading bruises at his throat.

Aranea sighed. “Specs,” she said, her voice soft. “Ignis. You feel something for the prince, don’t you?”

“I never said I—”

“You care about him enough that you want to quit being an assassin. For good. Am I right?” When Ignis nodded, she continued. “That’s a start, isn’t it? Maybe, if you’d met him five years from now, you’d have trained yourself not to feel anything at all. You might have killed him without looking back. But you feel something.” She tapped a closed fist against her chest. “Hold on, then. Go see him. If Ardyn asks about you, I’ll cover.”

“Aranea, that’s not—”

“Remind him of the attacks. Tell him his life’s in danger, but not from you. Tell him his guards need to stay alert, or increase security, or something,” Aranea said.

“And how do I explain the fact that I attacked one of his guards just this morning?”

Aranea spread her hands. “He threatened you, didn’t he?” She tipped her head to one side. “Protect him, Ignis. And I’ll hold off Ardyn as long as I can.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Ignis said. His chest felt tight, as if someone had tied a rope around it and pulled hard.

“Well, maybe I want to.” Aranea crossed her arms and took a step back. She gestured at him with a hand. “This is what I wanted, you know. A place to go back to when I wasn’t working. Maybe someone else who understood. But whenever I tried to leave that life, I felt like an impostor. So I’m stuck here.”

Ignis fell silent for a moment. “You have my apologies, Aranea.”

“Oh, don’t apologize,” Aranea said, waving him off. “And Luna,” she said, turning to the medic, who’d been standing beside them in silence throughout the conversation, “I trust you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone?”

Luna bowed her head. “I have never told anyone your secrets, and I do not intend to. They are safe with me.”

“Same to you.” Turning back to Ignis, Aranea said, “And you, go home. Don’t forget what I told you.”

“Yes, of course,” Ignis answered. A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Luna—you have my thanks.” The medic nodded to him.

_Go home._

Deep down, he felt that Aranea was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I had planned to get this chapter out yesterday, but then I got home late and I ran out of time.
> 
> As per usual, thank you to everyone for reading this far and for the support! :)


	7. Chapter 7

Ignis made the trip back to Noctis’s apartment building on foot. The Audi was still parked near there, where he’d left it in his panic after the incident with Noctis’s bodyguard. The hour was late, and he didn’t see many people out, but he hoped Noctis would still be awake.

For the entire walk, he agonized over what to say. If Noctis had found out about what had happened, he’d apologize straight off, but of course there was the possibility that Noctis wouldn’t accept his apology, and he didn’t know what he would do then. If Noctis hadn’t found out—though this scenario, he calculated, seemed unlikely considering the vehemence with which his bodyguard had declared that he’d send the Kingsglaive after Ignis—would he say something? Or should he keep silent? Saying nothing, of course, would mean lying to Noctis yet again, and . . .

He found himself at the front door of the building. A row of cars sat along the street, but he encountered no one in the lobby, no one in the stairwell. The silence only amplified his anxiety. He could hear his own heartbeat.

A thin sliver of light shone beneath Noctis’s door when he arrived, and he tapped his knuckles against the door, a little more quietly than he’d intended.

Still, a few moments later, the door swung open. Noctis, dressed in his regular dark clothes, stood on the threshold. He had shadows beneath his eyes, and his hair was mussed, like he’d been running his hands through it. He knew. He had to.

And when he realized who stood on the other side, he closed his eyes and exhaled. “Ignis,” he finally said, with much less conviction than all those times before. He hesitated a moment before adding, “Come in.”

Noctis shut the door behind him and gestured to the kitchen table, just barely big enough for four people. Ignis pulled out a chair, and Noctis pulled out the one across from him. As he sat down, the prince pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, clearly exhausted.

“If you want to sleep, we can talk later,” Ignis offered.

“Of course I _want_ to sleep,” Noctis snapped. “But I can’t. I just heard from Gladio—my bodyguard—that you pulled a knife on him earlier, Ignis. Is that true?”

_No. No, it’s not true,_ Ignis wanted to say. But he knew if he did, he would only make everything worse. “Yes,” he said quietly. “You have my apologies, Your Highness. I felt threatened—”

“ _You_ felt threatened. How do you think _I_ feel?” Noctis asked, slamming an open palm down on the table. “I’ve been letting you stay here, thinking you were on my side. I even let you sleep in the spare room. And you’ve been carrying a knife around this whole time. You’re wounded—and you wouldn’t even tell me what happened. How am I supposed to know you’re not going to come at me sometime when I’m not paying attention? Or if you ever felt like I was a threat to you?”

“Your Highness, please, I would never hurt you—”

“Enough with the ‘Your Highness’ shit!” Noctis exclaimed. Ignis realized there were tears glistening in Noctis’s eyes, threatening to spill over. “I don’t want to hear it. I let you back in and you’ve been lying to me. Where do you go when you leave at the crack of dawn? Did those bruises come from a fight?” He shook his head. “Who _are_ you?”

_“Noctis,”_ Ignis said, reaching across the table to take his hand. Noctis drew his hand away, angry tears still shimmering, waiting to fall. “I’m so sorry. You have my word that I would never hurt you, I promise. And I bear your bodyguard no ill will. I did not mean to harm him, either. Had I been able to think through the situation, I would not have done what I did. I swear it.”

“So what the fuck was the knife for?” Noctis demanded.

“Self-defense. The bruises—” He thought of Ardyn’s hands circling his neck, and he shuddered. “They came from someone who holds a great deal of power over me.”

Noctis fell silent for a moment. Finally, he pushed his chair back. “I need some time to think about this,” he said, his voice shaking. “I know you said you have nowhere to go, and if that’s true, you can stay here tonight. But I’m sleeping in my own room. And I’m locking the door.”

_Shut out at last._ Ignis wondered what Noctis would have done if he knew the whole story. And because he hadn’t told that story—he’d lied again, maybe not outright, but by omission.

He should let Noctis go. Maybe Aranea hadn’t been wrong, about this place and his prince and what they meant to him, but he’d still made a mistake. He deserved to spend a night alone.

But Aranea had also told him to fight back. After all, if he lost Noctis, he would lose everything.

“Your Highn— _Noctis_ ,” Ignis said to Noctis’s back, as he stood on the threshold of the hallway that led to his bedroom. “Thank you. For the offer. But I shouldn’t stay, after what I did. I know that.”

Noctis had turned around and was studying him, an unreadable expression on his face. For a moment, Ignis thought he would change his mind, would break down and say that he couldn’t let Ignis leave, that he hadn’t meant any of it. Yet he said, “Come back in a few days, and I’ll see how I feel.” His voice broke on that last word, and he retreated into his bedroom before he could show any more emotion, shutting the door a little too loudly.

Ignis heard the soft click of the lock a moment later, and he winced. So not just a night alone, but a few nights alone.

He left Noctis’s apartment behind, descended the stairs, and stepped back out into the night. A block or so away, he found the Audi parked right where he had left it, untouched.

He drove back to the clinic.

 

* * *

 

The clinic was difficult to find, now that Ignis no longer had Aranea’s guidance. It lay hidden in the shadows of several other buildings, unlit and almost completely unidentifiable from the outside. By the time he was able to determine that yes, this was the building he and Aranea had arrived at earlier, the late night had transitioned to a very early hour of the morning, and Ignis had begun to wonder if he should just give up on sleep altogether.

He knocked on the door, but even after waiting a few minutes, he received no sign that the building was even occupied. Perhaps, he thought, Luna had gone home after he and Aranea had left.

But she hadn’t—she appeared out of the darkness of the building with no warning at all. Despite his years of training, Ignis felt his pulse jump a little at her sudden presence.

“You’re Aranea’s friend, aren’t you?” Luna asked. “Ignis?”

“Indeed.”

“Have you need of my help again so soon?” she asked, and then stepped back, holding the door. “Here—you should come in.”

He stepped past her into the clinic, which was just as they’d left it—dark and empty. “I assume you’re closed?”

“Well, yes, but we had been closed before Aranea requested my assistance earlier.” Luna pushed the door closed with some effort. “I don’t mind.”

Ignis didn’t know what to say. He wondered if she ever slept and how she managed to make a living all the way out here, at the edge of the city. “Well, as it happens, I don’t have anywhere to stay tonight, and I was wondering if you would be willing to lend me a space. I could compensate you as needed, of course.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Please, allow me. I’ve already inconvenienced you once today,” Ignis said.

Luna glanced over at the side of the room, and when Ignis followed her gaze, he saw that she looked in the direction of a clock mounted on the wall in the shadows. Its hands pointed at hours long past midnight. She turned back to him with a little smile on her lips. “That was yesterday.”

“Luna—” Ignis closed his eyes, adjusted his glasses. He’d had enough of guilt within the past several hours. He couldn’t let it keep eating away at him, couldn’t keep owing people whom he could never repay. “Surely you heard the conversation between Aranea and me. I am only paid to take lives, to bring ruin to others. I cannot let you, a healer, shelter me at no cost.”

“Yes, you can,” she said. “There are several rooms upstairs. I usually give them to patients who need to stay a long time, but I can unlock one for you. If you need it tomorrow, too, please go ahead. Just return the key to me when you’re ready.”

She moved toward of the stairs at the back of the clinic’s main room, not waiting to hear his response. Ignis felt that invisible rope tighten around his lungs again. “I have done nothing to deserve this,” he told her. _Just as I had done nothing to deserve Noctis’s kindness. And I ruined it anyway. I betrayed his trust._

Luna turned slowly to face him. “It does not matter,” she said softly. “This is a clinic. You do not need to earn—to _deserve—_ anything.” She waved a hand toward the stairs. “Come this way.”

The upstairs hallway smelled faintly floral, despite the fact that the rooms must have held ill patients in the past. The late hour threw shadows over everything. Luna produced a string of keys and unlocked the door to the first room easily, identifying the correct key without a struggle even in the darkness. She left the key to Ignis and departed.

“Please take care,” she said before she turned away.

The room beyond carried a thin layer of dust, but it was near silent—the only sounds the muffled background noise of the city beyond. The building made no sound. The pipes didn’t knock and he could detect no sign that mice or bats lived in the walls. The effect was almost eerie.

Ignis lay awake most of the night. He tried to sleep, but he kept thinking about what Noctis had said to him. _I let you back in and you’ve been lying to me._ He’d only heard the prince’s words once, but they took over, ricocheting in his mind like Ardyn’s commandments. _Who are you?_ Each time he thought of them, he wanted to call out to Noctis, to apologize again. _I need some time to think about this._ After several hours of this, when he still couldn’t make himself fall asleep, he threw a knife at the far wall.

He wanted to draw back the blade immediately after it left his hand, but he couldn’t. The knife embedded itself in the wall and stuck there, wobbling slightly. Ignis half wondered if Luna had heard and would come down the hall to investigate. He didn’t even bother to cross the room and retrieve the weapon.

He turned over to face the opposite wall and thought of Noctis curled up against him, the way he’d cling when he didn’t want Ignis to move. The way his warmth carried Ignis through the night and warded away his nightmares.

_Come back in a few days, and I’ll see how I feel._

The thought of losing Noctis caused him to start shaking, his eyes burning but not with tears. He was so tired. He’d rather fall asleep and not wake up than wake up to knowing that he’d never see Noctis again, or that Noctis would never look at him the way he once had.

Noctis was all he had left.

Ignis opened his eyes to the soft light of dawn pushing through the thin curtains over the window and realized that he’d fallen asleep. Probably for only an hour or two, but it was enough.

He couldn’t stay any longer. He’d drive around Insomnia until the Audi ran out of fuel if that would take his mind off everything. He’d find rooftops from which to watch the city and pretend he was out on reconnaissance like Ardyn wanted him to be.

Not for the first time, he wished he had a cell phone.

He could call Noctis and ask how he felt. Maybe Noctis wouldn’t pick up the first time, but Ignis could leave a message. Give him permission to say he never wanted to see Ignis again if that was how he felt. It would be an answer, at least. Ignis would stop calling.

But he would probably lose his balance at the edge of one of the rooftops after he’d hung up the phone. The police would identify his body and find his fingerprints in the Crownsguard soldier’s apartment. They’d say he was the criminal they were looking for, that he was overwhelmed by guilt for the deaths he’d caused and had finally decided to pay them back with his own life. This would be the truth—but only part of it.

Ignis walked back out to the Audi, but when he reached the driver’s door, he heard a light, accented voice behind him. He looked back and saw Luna, standing at the door of the clinic. She had the ring of keys in her hand—perhaps she was opening the building for the day.

“Stay safe out there,” she said. “And if you see Aranea, tell her hello for me.”

Ignis nodded to her. “Of course,” he said. “And thank you.”

“It’s no problem, really.” She smiled and disappeared back into the clinic, without even inquiring after the key she’d given him.

He drove all morning and wasted the afternoon doing what he always did in the middle of work or in between assignments—he parked the car on the street somewhere and walked a couple of blocks until he found a building with a serviceable fire escape, and he watched the city from the roof of that building, smoking the last of the cigarettes he had on him until he felt light-headed and the sky had begun to darken. He knew Noctis wouldn’t find him here, but he couldn’t return yet, either. Only a day had passed since they’d last spoken. Since Noctis had ordered him out.

He let himself into the clinic after the sun had set and darkness had descended on the city, and he slipped into his room without encountering Luna. He still barely slept that night.

Ignis let two more days pass like this. He took up a different space or two each day, usually a roof or balcony, once a bar. He only ventured out to eat something or replace his pack of cigarettes or retrieve a bottle of some sort of strong liquor, and where he normally would have hated the feeling of not being able to think straight, he needed his thoughts not to torment him this time.

Aranea found him on the fourth day. Somehow he’d lasted the afternoon, even though he was fairly sure he wouldn’t have been able to walk a straight line if he’d been asked. He’d wasted the morning sitting on the roof of a building not too far from Noctis’s apartment with a bottle beside him, and he’d thrown a couple of knives at one of the walls that bound the door to the stairway, even though it was made of brick and they’d both bounced off and hit the ground. He leaned against the low half-wall that ran around the edge of the building, letting it hide him from view.

She stood in front of him without giving any warning, any signal to her arrival. He tried to meet her eyes, but the light had already begun to leave the sky and he was—well. Incapacitated.

“Ignis.” She shook her head. “Shit, this is _not_ how I expected to find you.”

“And how . . . did you expect to find me?” Ignis asked, fairly certain that his words slurred and hoping that at least some of it was intelligible. “How did you even find me at all?”

“Wasn’t too hard,” Aranea said, gesturing out at the open air around her. “There are buildings taller than this one, and your boyfriend’s apartment is about two steps that way.”

“It’s not that close.”

“I know.” She strode over and dropped down next to him, picking up the bottle and holding it hostage.

“Give that back,” Ignis said, reaching for it. She moved it just out of his grasp. “Also . . . I neglected to mention that he isn’t my boyfriend.”

He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw her roll her eyes. “Oh, really? Because you just told me not that long ago that you did some things you didn’t think he’d approve of. And now it’s almost dark and you haven’t gone to his place. Besides”—she lifted the bottle, examining the little liquid left inside—“you’ve got to be so wasted right now. I can’t even believe I’m talking to you.”

“How’d you figure out . . . that was his apartment building?” Ignis asked. He was already tired of talking, and he could barely get the words out.

“I’ve seen you pass by there. Remember?” Despite her words, Ignis didn’t think she sounded impatient.

“I . . . think so.” He felt his balance shifting, and the next thing he knew, he was leaning against her with his head on her shoulder. He felt her recoil at first, but after a moment she relaxed, slinging an arm around his shoulders.

“Keep talking to me, Specs,” she said, her grip on his arm tightening enough to be painful. “You’re not passing out. Not on my watch.”

“I’m so tired,” Ignis breathed. The sentence must have taken him three minutes to get out.

“Tell me what happened.”

“He told me not to come back for a few days,” Ignis said. “He wouldn’t forgive me.”

“Well, did you apologize?”

Ignis murmured a _Yes_ and squeezed his eyes shut. “The only way I can contact him is to go to his apartment, and I don’t know if I can. I don’t want him to send me away,” he said. “If he does . . . if he does . . . he can’t. I . . . I love him.”

“Oh, so there it is.” Aranea patted his shoulder. “You’re in love with him. That explains a lot. So—does he not feel that way about you?”

“He probably does, but . . . we haven’t talked about it,” Ignis told her. “Except the time I told him not to kiss me.”

Aranea burst out laughing, and for a moment Ignis sat by in confusion, wondering what she found so funny. “You _what?”_ she asked before he could say anything. “Why would you do that?”

“I want him too much,” Ignis whispered. “And I can’t kill him.”

Once he’d said those words, the world went dark.

 

* * *

 

Aranea wore a far more serious expression when she shook him awake. He didn’t know if it had been a minute, or ten minutes, or an hour, but his vision was blurry and he felt as if the world around him were unbalanced.

“Weren’t you listening? I said you weren’t allowed to pass out,” Aranea said, her voice sharp.

The side of his face stung a little, and he wondered if she’d slapped him to wake him up. He guessed that he probably deserved it. He remembered her showing up on the roof, but he had no idea what he’d said to her. In fact, he didn’t remember her saying that he wasn’t allowed to pass out.

“Okay, look. I’m going to get you down from here, you’re going to take me to wherever the hell you parked that car Ardyn gave you, and then we’re driving to the clinic,” Aranea said. “You do remember where you parked the car, right?”

“I think so.”

“All right, on your feet, then.”

She helped him to his feet and pulled one of his arms around her shoulders, supporting him as they moved toward the building’s fire escape. The first landing lay a little below the edge of the building, and as they neared it, Aranea turned to look Ignis in the eye.

“Look, I know what kind of shape you’re in right now,” she said. “And because of that, this is going to be dangerous, if not near impossible. But you are an _assassin._ You and I are going to do this. You hear me?”

Ignis nodded, but when he thought about the drop from the edge of the roof, all he could think of was that first morning without Noctis, how he’d contemplated taking that fall. As he tried to follow each of Aranea’s movements, his limbs felt heavy and his muscles trembled. When he landed on his feet—barely—on the unsteady fire escape, he saw Aranea breathe a sigh of relief.

“Let’s get going.”

“Hold on—a moment’s rest,” Ignis breathed, one hand braced against the brick wall of the building beside them. The height was making him dizzy.

“You can rest at the clinic,” she insisted. “We’re going.”

She dragged him the rest of the way down the fire escape’s stairs and around the corner, where she started asking him where to find the car. He thought he remembered, but a few turns later, the area around them no longer looked familiar. He pressed a hand to his forehead.

Aranea backhanded his shoulder, and he realized he hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “The keys,” she said. “Give me your keys.”

“Don’t set off the alarm.”

She snorted. “What kind of assassin would I be if I did that?”

Ignis handed over the keys, and she gave him a last chance at directions. He tried another block before shaking his head and telling her he couldn’t remember. She grabbed his arm and dragged him after her.

They walked a few blocks before finally locating the Audi. Ignis wanted to collapse again, but Aranea just unlocked the doors, sliding into the driver’s seat and making some remark to Ignis about not getting vomit in Ardyn’s car. He was mostly certain he told her to shut up. She laughed.

He passed out again on the way to the clinic.

When he opened his eyes, his vision swam, the world around him twisting and distorting into shafts of faint light and color. After a moment, the scene resolved and he saw the room where Luna had been letting him stay. It had been . . . how many days now? Four? He didn’t even remember half of yesterday. And she still hadn’t kicked him out. God, how was he ever going to pay them back? Luna and Aranea and Noctis—the people who either didn’t know about his work or had decided to overlook it. He owed them more than he could give.

The room was dim, and he could hear voices in the hallway—Aranea’s and Luna’s, he guessed after listening for a few moments. He wondered how long he’d been here. Perhaps they’d just closed the door behind them, and it had only been a few minutes. Or he’d been unconscious too long and they were debating whether to wake him up.

But, wait—he could detect another voice behind the door. A male voice? But as far as he could tell, it didn’t belong to Noctis or his bodyguard or anyone familiar. _Then I suppose I’d best hope it isn’t law enforcement._

Ignis sat up, and immediately his head began to pound, reminding him of what he’d spent the day before doing. He closed his eyes against the pain and the knot in his stomach.

“. . . twelve hours,” Aranea’s voice was saying in the hallway.

“Shall I wake him?” Luna asked.

“How bad was it last night?” the stranger’s voice asked. “Maybe you should give him another hour or so.”

No, he was wrong. That voice didn’t belong to a stranger. Ignis had heard it before, but he’d yet to place where. His head hurt. He braced his hands on his knees.

“Just check on him again and make sure he’s not dead,” Aranea said, rather forcefully. “Then you can decide whether you wanna be soft on him or not.”

“He’s working under Ardyn. You sure as shit don’t need to worry about bein’ soft on that one.” The vaguely familiar voice again, with a faint laugh in his tone. Ignis rubbed his temples.

“You haven’t seen him lately.” Aranea. “ _And_ you haven’t seen Ardyn lately.”

Before Ignis could take apart that statement, the door opened a crack, and Luna looked in.

“Oh! You’re awake,” she said, pressing a hand to her mouth. “May I bring in the others, or are you not well enough yet?”

“I’ve a splitting headache, but I’ll manage.” Ignis waved a hand at the door. “Let them in.”

Luna pushed the door open a little wider, gesturing for the others to enter. Aranea appeared, followed by a figure Ignis was sure he hadn’t seen in years.

“Nyx,” he said. “Nyx Ulric.”

“Long time no see,” Nyx said with a feigned salute. He wore black, the same as they all did when they were working, but there was no trace of stress in his expression. “And before you get there, no, I’m not dead. I deserted on an assignment and made sure it looked like I got deep-sixed. Kinda same as the Lady Lunafreya here.” He gestured with a shoulder to Luna, whose gaze turned to her shoes. “But I’m guessing Ardyn thinks I’m done for, since he hasn’t come after me.”

“Hasn’t so much as mentioned you,” Ignis said.

“Must’ve done a decent job, then. And looks like Lady Lunafreya did, too. Aranea says Ravus is on the warpath these days.” Despite the weight of the two sentences, Nyx grinned.

“Nyx, I—I don’t wish to be called by my title.” Luna’s eyes were still cast downward.

“Oh—right, yeah.”

Ignis squinted at the three of them. “Ravus?” he asked. Looking to Luna, he asked, “Then you’re—his sister?”

“I am.” She nodded once. “Neither of us is from Insomnia—from Lucis. He was to inherit the throne. He began his initial training to stop his enemies, but became convinced that he should take the life of the king in Lucis. Or the prince, I suppose. But when he told me this, I knew I had to do something, for I could not abide his plans. I, too, arranged my own death.”

Nyx had faked his own death to escape service to Ardyn. Luna had faked hers in the hopes of forcing Ravus to change. Could Ignis do the same and be with Noctis? Could he abandon the things that he’d felt made him unworthy of the prince’s attention?

He knew Luna operated as a healer now, but—“What have you been doing, now that you’re no longer Ardyn’s assassin?” Ignis asked Nyx.

“Actually, I’ve been working undercover with the Kingsglaive. Trying to make sure the Crown Prince of Lucis stays safe.” Nyx shrugged. “Been a tough job ever since they lost King Regis, though.”

“Indeed.”

“Well then, Ignis,” Aranea said after a short silence, “how do you feel? You ready to go back out yet?”

“Not at all,” Ignis sighed, running his hands through his hair. “Luna, if you’ve any advice . . .”

She looked to Aranea. “He had no injuries last night?” When Aranea confirmed this, she told Ignis, “Then despite everything, you should be all right in time, unless there are any other symptoms of which you haven’t told me. You could join us downstairs, if you’d like.”

“Right now,” Ignis said, “I think . . . I should probably rest a while.”

“Suit yourself, Specs,” Aranea said, smirking. She turned to leave, though Nyx and Luna hesitated to follow.

Luna cast a look in Nyx’s direction, and he nodded, exiting the room without a word. They both heard his footsteps on the stairs. Luna met Ignis’s eyes. “Your prince . . . will you be returning to him tonight?” she asked.

“I hope to,” Ignis sighed. “But if things don’t go well—”

“Then you’re welcome here,” Luna said. “I’ve told Aranea the same. I have heard stories from both her and Nyx. All of you need a place to hide, a place to be safe. I am a healer. I want to be the one to provide that for you.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Keep the key I gave you.”

“Luna, truly, you don’t have to—”

“I am aware. But this is what I want to do.” Taking a half step toward the door, she added, “And I hope things are well between you and Noctis.”

“Thank you,” Ignis breathed. He wasn’t even sure Luna had heard him at first, but she gave him a little nod and stepped out of the room.

He lay down again, trying to stop craving the prince’s warmth. His head throbbed. He didn’t have much faith that Noctis would let him back in. There were only more lies between them.

Just as he closed his eyes, a pair of hands clamped down on his shoulders, forcing him back into the sheets—except they weren’t sheets, not anymore, but a harsh concrete floor. His shoulders smarted at the sudden impact.

“You thought you could be rid of me,” a voice snarled into his ear.

_Ardyn._

“A foolish notion. And I once thought you were clever.” Ardyn’s weight bore down on him, and he struggled to breathe in the cramped space between him and the ground. He could hardly see anything past his employer’s blood-red hair and dark coat. “But how disappointing. You believe yourself to be in love with one of your targets. Now that is perhaps the saddest story I have ever heard.”

“Unhand me,” Ignis said through his teeth.

“Oh _my._ This is inexcusable. I can’t have you talking to me like that, can I?” Ardyn shook his head. “Then perhaps it is time for me to teach you a lesson. About _feelings._ ” Drawing a small knife, he drew the blade lightly across the skin of Ignis’s throat, and Ignis flinched. “You see, the two of us, we work in a business that doesn’t deal well with feelings. Sometimes you have to learn to shut them down.” Ardyn’s blade dug deeper, and his free hand pushed Ignis’s shoulder into the concrete with so much force that it hurt. His voice went deadly quiet. “And sometimes you have to learn to do as you’re told.”

“Stop this,” Ignis snapped, but Ardyn had his other hand around his throat before he could even reach the end of the sentence. _No,_ Ignis’s mind screamed. _No, oh dear gods, this isn’t happening. This can’t be happening._

“Oh, Scientia. You should know better than to refuse me.”

He struggled, but every movement had him trying for a gasp of air and failing to get it. Spots clouded the edges of his vision. And when Ardyn finally let him breathe, he was so overtaken by the way it felt to have air in his lungs that he forgot how to fight. He felt Ardyn’s hands finding the last few weapons he had hidden in his clothing and tossing them to the concrete floor beside them. Taking away every last power he had to fight back.

_No,_ he tried, but his voice would no longer obey him.

“Shhh,” his employer hushed, seeing his attempt to speak. “This won’t be over anytime soon. You’d best save your breath.”

Ignis sat up straight, his breath tearing at his throat, his skin slick with sweat. He looked around him at his room in the clinic, empty. He was alone.

Alone.

All of it had been a dream, a hallucination of his exhausted, terrified mind. None of it was real. He was safe. Except—

He shook his head. There was no way he could have invented that torture, that nightmare. It felt like—like Ardyn’s voice speaking to him on missions. Like Ardyn was _in his head._ No. His subconscious couldn’t have—he _couldn’t have._

He had his head in his hands and was still breathing raggedly when a knock sounded at the door and Luna’s voice asked if she could come in. He didn’t answer, and she opened the door an inch before slipping into the room.

“Ignis?” she asked. “Are you all right? Shall I come back later?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m—I’m fine. It’s nothing.”

“It’s been several hours,” she said. “Night will be here soon enough. I thought you might want to know, in case you still planned on seeing Noctis.” She gestured to the door. “The rest of us are downstairs, if you’d like to talk.”

He’d slept the entire day, and yet—he still felt so _weary._ If Noctis didn’t want to see him, he might just collapse to his knees and give up.

“Actually—does the clinic, by any chance, have a shower I could use, before I leave?” His skin still felt sticky, not to mention tainted by the ghost of Ardyn’s touch, imagined or no. Plus he was fairly certain his hair, after he’d run his hands through it so many times, couldn’t decide whether it was up or down. He doubted Noctis would want to see him in this state.

Luna nodded. “At the end of the hall. You’re welcome to it, of course.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll be with the others, if you happen to need anything else,” Luna said.

Minutes later, Ignis stood in the clinic’s shower, letting the water and the steam take the sweat and dirt and the already-distant memory of blades from his skin. He thought back again to what Nyx and Luna had said about disappearing. Maybe some afternoon or some night when he needed someone to talk to, he could ask them how they’d done it. If Nyx had really ousted himself from the line of assassins under Ardyn’s thumb, he could prove a valuable ally.

He pushed that thought away, resolving to return to it later. For now, he needed to prepare himself to see the prince.

As Ignis pulled his jacket back on a few minutes later, aware of the weight of the knives balanced in the fabric, he closed his eyes. He couldn’t know what Noctis would say to him, what would happen when they met again. He would just have to steel himself for the worst and hope . . . and hope for something like acceptance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (whispers) I apologize ~
> 
> On another note, @his-pair-of-spare-glasses posted an amazing art piece for this story last week on tumblr!! You can find it [here](https://his-pair-of-spare-glasses.tumblr.com/post/165180960181/the-steel-is-your-guide-yet-you-will-bow-to-none)! If you can, go give it some likes XD
> 
> Anyway, I'll be back soon!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (A song for this chapter: ["When We're Fire (Cello Version)"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sKezJpC9BbM) by Lo-Fang.)

Ignis stood at the door to Noctis’s apartment, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He’d rehearsed a thousand different speeches in his head on the way over, but now that he’d arrived here, now that he actually had to face the prospect of speaking to Noctis, he could think of absolutely nothing to say. In all his years working under Ardyn, he’d had to lie his way through situation after situation—especially when he was caught somewhere he shouldn’t be, in his first few reconnaissance missions—and yet for some reason that ability seemed to have abruptly left him.

Though perhaps that was for the better. Noctis had sent him out last time because of his lies.

He took a deep breath, raised his hand, and knocked. For several moments, only silence answered him.

Then the door opened, and Noctis looked out into the hall.

In the scarce light, he was beautiful—the subtle glow over his cheekbones and in his blue eyes nearly stole Ignis’s breath. But his expression was unreadable as he looked to Ignis.

“You came back,” he said softly.

“Noctis—”

Before he could say anything else, Noctis reached out and took his hand, tugging him into the apartment. “Come here,” he whispered. “I don’t want to have this conversation in the hallway.”

Ignis waited as he shut the door, waited until they were alone in Noctis’s silent, dimly-lit apartment. Taking his time, Noctis strode past Ignis until he faced away from him, waiting a moment before turning around. A hint of color showed across his cheeks even in the low light.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I overreacted. I kept trying to tell myself that it was too dangerous for me to let you come back. I thought I should hate you for what happened, but . . . but I _can’t._ ” He shook his head. He’d been staring at the floor, but now he raised his eyes to meet Ignis’s. “I know you said you’d never try to hurt me. I believe you—I mean, Gladio can be pretty intimidating sometimes.”

 A little smirk pulled at the edge of Noctis’s mouth, and Ignis fought the sudden, resounding urge to step forward and kiss that mouth. Gods, despite the fact that Noctis had pushed him away, he didn’t want the prince any less, and that terrified him. The scope of his feelings had exploded since they’d first spoken in that bar.

But the smile faded from Noctis’s face almost as soon as it had appeared. “I couldn’t sleep while you were gone,” he said.

Ignis thought of the sleepless nights he’d spent at the clinic, and the nightmares he’d suffered. “Nor could I.”

“Tell me what happened,” Noctis said, and when he did, there was something like hope, some thin, wavering emotion in his eyes. “Everything. I won’t interrupt.”

Ignis told him, and he stood back and listened, his arms crossed over his chest, without saying a word. Ignis recounted everything he remembered—the attempt to escape Noctis’s apartment without being seen, the gun, the way he’d reacted without thinking and whipped out the knife—and then he apologized. He told Noctis he knew he shouldn’t have done it, that he hadn’t wanted to cause a scene or threaten Noctis’s safety, and that the last thing he wanted was for Noctis to come to harm.

“Okay,” Noctis said when he’d finished, the word an exhale. “Okay.”

“Your bodyguard—he’s not seriously injured?”

“Gladio said he took a hit to the shoulder, but he’s had worse,” Noctis continued. “So I think he’ll be fine.” He drew a breath as if he wanted to say something else, but for a moment he just looked away.

Ignis waited.

“It’s just—Ignis—I don’t know what’s going on with you, or if there’s—if there’s someone else—but I want you,” Noctis said. The last few words escaped him like a gasp, like he couldn’t quite breathe around the weight of them. “No one else has to know about it. Not Gladio—not any of my guards. But only if it’s okay with you.”

Ignis thought his legs might give out.

“I feel the same.”

Noctis strode toward him, stopping with inches between them. His eyes stopped on Ignis’s throat, and Ignis felt his pulse begin to race as he remembered what had happened the night after his last encounter with Ardyn. Noctis’s hand ghosted over his skin where the bruises had once been, and Ignis knew he was thinking about it too.

“Your bruises are gone.”

Ignis slipped a hand around Noctis’s waist and pulled him closer, so that they stood close enough to touch and to share warmth. Noctis kissed the hollow of his throat.

“I’m not going to get you in trouble, am I?” he asked.

“Not in the way you’re thinking,” Ignis said with a faint smile, “but perhaps—”

He didn’t get a chance to say anything more, because Noctis tipped his chin up and kissed him on the mouth. Ignis didn’t hesitate—he kissed back, coaxing Noctis to part his lips, and when his hands tightened on Noctis’s waist, the prince gave a little groan.

_I can’t have you,_ Ignis thought, _I shouldn’t have you, I don’t deserve you, but—_

But Noctis was warm against him and he couldn’t find it in him to say no.

For a long moment neither of them moved from where they stood. They kissed until they were out of breath, each of them discovering the other, with their hands and with their lips. The chorus of protests in Ignis’s head quieted and then disappeared entirely. Here was Noctis, who had remembered him after ten years, who had forgiven him, whom Ignis thought he must have loved since they first met, for whom he would give his life without question. The force of the emotions surfacing within him was so great he thought he would drown in them.

Noctis leaned into him slightly, pushing his jacket over his shoulders so that it fell to the floor. Ignis took a couple of small steps backward and found his back pressed against the wall a moment later. He felt the small flame between them flare suddenly hotter, lighting him up, warming him all the way to his core. Noctis’s hands curled in the fabric of his shirt, allowing him to draw closer and press a deep, desperate kiss to Ignis’s mouth.

When he pulled away, his cheeks were flushed, and a smile played on his lips. “Switch places with me?”

Ignis grasped Noctis’s shoulders and spun them around, and Noctis folded himself easily into the space between the wall and Ignis’s body. Ignis let his hands drift downward so that he could lift him, pressing them even closer together and allowing Noctis to wrap his legs around his waist. Ignis hesitated a moment and felt Noctis’s breath caress his throat.

He bent to kiss the prince’s neck, and Noctis tipped his head back, humming a little. Ignis continued on that path, each kiss longer and deeper than the last, occasionally turning one into a tentative bite. Before long he had Noctis gasping, his hands twined in Ignis’s hair. The Six strike him down, he could—he could feel Noctis against him, and his acknowledgment of that only made his own body react more strongly.

“We should—probably go somewhere else,” Noctis whispered into his ear. Ignis let him down and he collapsed against the wall, a smirk daring to cross his lips. “But you should carry me. I can’t walk.”

Ignis laughed softly and obliged without hesitating, lifting his prince into his arms. Noctis pressed his cheek against Ignis’s shoulder. Ignis had a moment of panic to remember the blades in his clothes, but he took a deep breath to let it pass—Noctis already knew, after all—and turned toward the spare room.

“Ignis, wait.” Noctis put a hand on his chest, to get his attention or to stop him. “We should use my bedroom.”

“Of course,” Ignis said, but inside he felt another flutter of anxiety, starting in his chest and spreading out to the tips of his fingers, making them tingle. The last time he’d set foot in this room . . . _No._ He couldn’t let himself think about that. . . .

He nudged the door open with a foot and stepped past the threshold, trying to ignore the way his heart pounded wildly, desperately behind his rib cage, reminding him, warning him. The room was dark again, the same way it had been the last time, and when he released Noctis from his arms, he realized he’d stood in this _exact_ spot, with the knife in his hand.

Phantom shocks of pain shot through him, and he turned away with a surprised cry. He realized too late that it wasn’t real, and that Noctis stood beside him, a hand on his arm. Noctis, whom he’d tried to _kill._ He would have done it if that electric agony hadn’t crushed him in its grip—he would have _done_ it, without even hesitating.

Noctis whispered his name. “Hey, are you okay? Did I . . . did I do something wrong?”

“No—no, you’ve done nothing wrong, Noct. It’s just that I—” He stopped, not knowing what to say. _I can’t be in this room, because it’s where I tried to kill you._ No. That wouldn’t help his case at all. “I don’t think tonight is a good—”

He thought Noctis would go cold, perhaps complain that he’d been leading him on, toying with him. But instead, his prince took him into his arms, carefully kissed his jaw. “It’s fine. You should have said so earlier.” He stroked a strand of hair back from Ignis’s face. “Do you just want to sleep?”

“Yes,” Ignis said, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Noctis shushed him. “Don’t apologize.”

He led Ignis back to his bed. Ignis endured this— _don’t tell him you can’t sleep here, don’t say anything, he’ll figure out something’s wrong—_ and lay down beside him, letting Noctis curl up with his head against his chest.

“Do you—need me to do anything?” Ignis asked softly, circling Noctis’s waist with an arm and letting the tips of his fingers slip beneath his belt to illustrate his meaning. But Noctis just shook his head.

“No, I’ll be okay,” he said. A vaguely concerned look had taken over his features, and one of his hands slid almost absently over Ignis’s chest. “Six, Ignis, you’re shaking.”

Ignis closed his eyes. He’d noticed, of course, but he’d hoped Noctis wouldn’t.

“And your heart’s racing,” Noctis observed quietly. “Well. So’s mine.” He took a long, slow breath, and Ignis felt the rise and fall of his chest with it. “Hey, this might be a little personal, so you don’t have to answer—but is someone . . . taking advantage of you?”

_Oh, Noctis. If you only knew the half of it._

“The short answer to that would be yes,” Ignis said. His own voice sounded small to him. “But I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

“Really?” Noctis asked, his eyes widening a little. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not something I wish to discuss.”

“No, no, that’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it.” His prince sighed and closed his eyes again, and Ignis reached up to thread fingers through his dark hair. “Besides, sleep sounds really nice right now. . . .”

He drifted off into sleep a few minutes later, leaving Ignis to hold his motionless form in the dark and watch the room. Only the slightest bit of light came in through the blinds, casting the bedroom in mostly shadow. The darkness seemed to thrum with energy.

Ignis wanted to leave. His shaking had stopped and his heartbeat calmed, but somehow he still felt that the room was watching him. He held Noctis to him, concentrated on his warmth, and reminded himself that all of that was over. He’d protect Noctis with his life before he’d ever return to Ardyn.

Still, he expected to lie awake the entire night, waiting for the shadows to leap out and throttle him. If he retreated to the spare room, he’d sleep better. He knew that. But he also knew he’d abandoned Noctis too many times to let it happen again.

 

* * *

 

The early-morning darkness still had hold of the room when Ignis woke from that same nightmare.

It had gone on even longer than the last one—and Noctis had been there, bound and forced to watch, while Ardyn slowly stripped Ignis’s clothing away from him, revealing the scarred planes of skin beneath. Noctis’s eyes had been wide with horror. Somehow, Ignis had been convinced that it was because of the scars. That Noctis couldn’t stand the sight of his scars.

He woke, breathing raggedly, his heart racing, and fought the urge to throw himself out of bed. Noctis still slept, his limbs entangled with Ignis’s. Ignis didn’t dare wake him. He lay back and forced down the sobs that tried to surface in his chest.

“Ignis . . . ?”

His first thought was _Don’t,_ as if he could compel Noctis to just go back to sleep like nothing had happened. But his prince was already awake, blinking the sleep out of his eyes and looking at Ignis with worry sparking in his expression.

“Are you leaving me?” Noctis asked, his hand resting again on Ignis’s chest—no doubt to feel the rapid beats of his heart.

He wanted to—or at least, he wished he could leave this room. He would have slept on the sofa if it meant freeing himself from the darkness in this room. But he didn’t actually want to leave Noctis.

His head hurt. He felt as if someone had reached into his thoughts and shuffled them like a deck of cards. Was Ardyn actually in his head, or had he just gotten that paranoid since leaving the keep?

“I’m not leaving you,” he whispered to Noctis, who clearly hadn’t read the signs correctly. Ignis wasn’t about to tell him that he was awake simply because he’d had a nightmare, but . . .

_I should tell him what I am—what I_ was.

The very thought felt like a knife in his chest. He couldn’t speak of that night, or of Ardyn. Not in this room. But he couldn’t possibly continue like this—keeping the whole truth from his prince.

“I’m just going to get up for a few minutes.” He disentangled himself from Noctis—it was like trying to undo a knot, as Noctis didn’t want to let go—and slid out of bed. Noctis murmured something and reached out for his hand. “Noct, I’ll return to you, I promise.”

“Take me with you,” Noctis sighed, his voice still heavy with sleep. He sat up, letting his legs hang over the edge of the mattress, and tugged Ignis back so that he stood between his knees. When they were close enough, he angled his chin up to brush his mouth against Ignis’s. He deepened the kiss scarcely a heartbeat later, parting his lips.

“It’s too early for this, Noct,” Ignis said softly against Noctis’s mouth.

“Please take me with you,” Noctis said again.

“If you say so, Your Highness.” Ignis lifted him carefully from the mattress. Noctis wrapped legs around Ignis’s waist again and turned his face into the curve of Ignis’s neck and shoulder.

He’d intended to just go into the bathroom and splash some water on his face, but now that he had Noctis with him, it didn’t seem appropriate. Besides, he thought he might just end up letting Noctis sit on the counter and kiss him until the pain went away.

_Lying coward,_ a voice whispered in his head.

Ignis flinched and nearly let go of Noctis. At first he’d been certain that he had heard the voice aloud, but he’d convinced himself that he had imagined it, instead. It had felt like someone was speaking to him—but from _inside_ his head?

“Hey, you okay?” Noctis whispered.

_I have to tell him. I can’t go on like this._

“I need to talk to you.”

“Okay. Sure.” Noctis clung tight to him as he walked into the living room.

He released Noctis, who took to his feet unsteadily, and moved to the other side of the room, where he flipped on the light. They both blinked at the sudden change from the room’s former murky darkness. Ignis sat on the opposite end of the sofa, across from Noctis.

“Look, I—” he began.

“Hold on,” Noctis interrupted. He shifted closer to Ignis so that he could lean against his side, their shoulders touching, their knees touching.

That flame burned low again when Noctis touched him, but it was quickly extinguished by the dark weight of guilt. He slipped an arm around Noctis’s waist to pull him closer. Noctis rested his head on Ignis’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

“Okay. Go.”

Ignis drew a steadying breath, half wishing he could light a cigarette and let it distract him. _Inhale._ He concentrated on the warmth of Noctis beside him—it might be the last time, any time could be the last time. But he had to try to fix this. Whatever _this_ was. _Exhale._

“If you don’t want me here after this,” Ignis began, his voice catching, “I’ll accept that. But please, Noct, just know that I mean you no harm, and that I—” He bit his lip, hard, to keep from finishing the sentence. What would he have said? _I love you?_ It felt too soon, too sudden. And too much like the beginning of a goodbye.

Noctis shushed him, though not harshly, and whispered his name. “Go on. I’m listening.”

“I—” The words stuck in his throat. He didn’t think he’d ever hated himself more than he did in that moment. When he finally spoke, he thought he sounded as if he were choking. “I was an assassin.”

He didn’t miss Noctis’s small gasp, the way his whole body tensed. “Ignis—”

“My employer was the one who left me with those bruises,” Ignis said before he could continue. Now each word felt like a small knife slicing his throat. “He’s been after me recently because I couldn’t complete my assignments. But I’ve left him for good. All I want is to protect you.”

Despite Ignis’s words, Noctis was on his feet, his fists clenched at his sides.

“Then the murders of those Crownsguard members,” he began, his voice ragged and almost tearful. “And my _father._ Was that you?”

Ignis shook his head. He rose slowly, taking a tentative step toward Noctis. “No, Noctis, I had no part in your father’s death. I swear it.” He reached over to take Noctis’s hand, but Noctis snatched his hand away, his fingers trembling. “I was assigned one of the Crownsguard members, but that’s all.”

“Then who the hell was behind the rest?” Noctis demanded. “Do you know?”

_Yes,_ Ignis thought, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. If he said that he knew, didn’t that make him complicit? But the answer must have shown in his expression, because Noctis made a frustrated sound and shoved him, both of his palms smacking Ignis’s chest and forcing him to take a step back. Within a heartbeat Noctis’s hands were curled into fists at his sides again, his head down.

“That’s where you’ve been all these years,” he said. “Killing. For work. _That’s_ why you left the Citadel, that’s why my father would never say what happened to you. . . .”

“I didn’t leave,” Ignis told him, hoping the acid panic he felt didn’t creep into his voice. He remembered the night that Ardyn had found him, the armed men standing in a circle around him, the knife to his throat. The darkness was closing in on him. “I was stolen.”

Noctis fell silent, shaking his head. He pressed a hand against his eyes, and the realization that he might be crying hit Ignis too late. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Noctis asked, his voice raw.

“I couldn’t,” Ignis said. Out loud, the answer sounded insufficient. “I thought it would eliminate any chance of you trusting me—and I need you to trust me, Noctis, more than you know.”

“Why? So your _employer_ can send someone after me next?” Noctis snapped. “So you can get my number and my address and my trust and then destroy it all? Why didn’t you just fucking _tell_ me?”

“Noctis, please, listen to me for just a moment.” Ignis’s hands were numb. He could no longer contain his panic—this was the conversation he had feared endlessly since the day they’d first spoken. “My employer sent me—he wanted me to go after you, and that was why I left him. I couldn’t do it, Noctis. I _won’t,_ and I won’t let him. You are in no danger from me.”

“You expect me to believe that? After you kept this from me for so long?” His voice sounded taut, strained, as if it could snap. “Would you believe I thought you were in a bad relationship? One I wanted to _save_ you from? No, you had knives in your clothes because you were using them to _kill people._ You lied to me and I trusted you and I never should have!”

“Noctis,” Ignis said, his voice nearly a whisper. “I didn’t do it to take advantage of your trust. I was—I was _afraid,_ and I didn’t want you to fear me, as well.”

“You didn’t want me to _fear_ you! Then you could’ve stopped keeping secrets from me—you could’ve stopped hiding weapons in your fucking jacket when you were here! How am I supposed to trust you knowing that you could’ve been waiting for a chance to stab me?” Noctis shouted. “How should I know you weren’t just—just biding your time until the right moment? Hell, how should I know you didn’t just stick around so you could have the chance to fuck me before you followed that bastard’s orders? It’s not like that many people can get this close to the Crown Prince of Lucis, so why not, right?”

He was shaking, and tears welled in his eyes. Ignis felt entirely numb now. If only Ardyn could see this wrath. He might be impressed, maybe even troubled. Ignis wondered if Ardyn could ever reconsider his decision to put out the fire that so obviously burned within the prince. Perhaps not, but Ignis certainly had, now that he’d experienced its warmth, been singed by its heat.

“Noctis, _please_ ,” he said softly. “I care for you. I don’t want you to come to harm.”

Noctis shook his head. “I don’t even know what that means, Ignis.”

Before Ignis could reply, Noctis turned and strode back to his room. He slammed the door behind him and threw the lock forcefully enough that Ignis could hear it. _Rejected, again._ He supposed he deserved it.

But Noctis hadn’t actually thrown him out of the apartment this time. He looked at the door to the spare room for a while, wondering if this was temporary, if Noctis just needed some time to think about it. Wondering if he dared stay or if he should just go.

Truly, Noctis had been the reason he’d decided to take back his life. Without the prince, he felt simply like a misguided assassin. A weapon.

He walked to the small kitchen table and began to take the weapons out of his jacket. He’d thrown too many of them away recently—he’d never actually pulled the dagger out of the wall at the clinic, and he was fairly sure he’d thrown two of them at a different wall the day he’d spent drinking. He laid the two remaining knives on the table. A final, smaller knife hid in his shoe, and he removed that one as well, placing it beside the others. He hung his jacket on one of the chairs and flipped on the light in the kitchen.

It had been too long since he’d last stayed here, and when he opened the refrigerator, he saw that most of the ingredients were still in separate containers. Shaking his head, he took them out and went to work.

He worked through the night, through his worries that Noctis would still want him gone, through bouts of trembling in his hands and flashes of memory from the years he’d worked under Ardyn. By the time he’d finished cooking and set all the dishes in the sink, he was dizzy with exhaustion, and his only thought was Ardyn’s voice saying on repeat, _Should you leave, you will dispose of your own life._ He pressed a hand to his forehead. He could fall asleep standing up.

Ignis crossed to the living room on unsteady legs, lowering himself to a seat on the sofa to rest. He’d just sit for a few minutes, he promised himself, and then he’d decide what to do.

Instead he let his eyes drift closed, and sleep dragged him into its depths.

 

* * *

 

Ignis woke with a start—not from nightmares, but with the sensation that something was wrong. Light streamed in through the windows, and the apartment was quiet. He’d tipped his head to the side while he slept, and his neck ached. He had no idea whether Noctis was still around.

Pressing a hand to the side of his neck, he walked back into the kitchen. His knives lay right where he’d left them. Beside them was a note. _Bringing two of my Kingsglaive over later. We need to talk. Don’t skip out. Noct._

Ignis stared for a moment at the lines of clumsy handwriting. It took him a moment to notice that Noctis had also scrawled something at the bottom of the page. He moved his thumb aside to read it: _P.S. Thank you._

He folded the note and slipped it into his pocket, a little stunned, a little numb. _Thank you_ —did that mean what he thought it meant? For abandoning his weapons? For the food? Maybe it was something else entirely.

For the first time, he just wanted to throw the last of his weapons at a wall, or into a garbage bin, or _something_ , and never come back for them. Any of them. He wanted to pretend Ardyn didn’t even exist. But even Noctis’s guards carried weapons, and if Ardyn really did want him dead—which, granted that he’d put Ignis in a position to tell the entire government who and where he was, he assumed that was the case—he’d have to stay prepared to defend himself.

He debated leaving the apartment, but he didn’t know what Noctis had meant by _later,_ and he didn’t want to miss their meeting. He drifted through the apartment’s small kitchen for a while, paced the living room, wished he had a cell phone or some way to contact Aranea and Luna. He sat on the edge of the sofa and watched the news, which didn’t mention the recent assassinations at all. He silenced the TV and worried about whether Ardyn would actually try to kill him. He reminded himself of the techniques he’d been taught in those first years of training, but that quickly gave way to memories of his targets, and he had to redirect his thoughts. Eventually he wore himself out and nearly fell asleep again.

A key turned in the lock on the door, and Ignis sat up, running a hand through his hair and hoping he looked presentable. Noctis’s bodyguard—indeed, the one he’d stabbed, Gladio—stepped across the threshold first. He glared at Ignis, who made no effort to glare back. He didn’t have the energy.

Noctis appeared after him, and behind him was the blond whom Ignis remembered from the bar, Prompto. Today they all wore full uniform, which made Ignis feel suddenly underdressed, not to mention inadequate. He remembered too late his blades and jacket still at the kitchen table.

“Over there,” Noctis said, gesturing to that very table. “Hey, Ignis. Good to see you decided to stay.” His tone wasn’t benevolent—rather, it was begrudging, and the effect made Ignis nervous. Maybe his written _thank you_ had been more sarcastic than anything else.

Ignis followed the three of them to the kitchen table, where they all sat down in silence without meeting each other’s eyes. He could sense the tension radiating from them. The blades sitting out in front of him, he was sure, didn’t help.

“Okay,” Noctis began.

Now that Ignis was closer to him, he could see the slight discomfort in his prince’s expression. None of them wanted to be here.

“I know all of the stuff that’s happened recently means you guys all kind of want to kill each other,” Noctis said.

“Hey, I don’t want to kill anyone,” Prompto said.

Noctis sighed. “All right, I got you, Prompto. But let me just explain myself for a minute. I want us to—to work something out.”

“We’ve got three knives,” Gladio said, gesturing to the blades resting in front of Ignis. “One for each of us. That count as working something out?”

Ignis felt rage flare in his chest like a wayward flame. “Go ahead,” he snapped. “It’d probably be a quicker death than the one I’m bound for anyway.”

Noctis grimaced. “Guys.”

Gladio shrugged and leaned back in his chair.

“Okay, look,” Noctis said. Suddenly he looked exhausted, as if all the weight in the world had suddenly been placed on his shoulders and he didn’t know how to hold it. Ignis wanted to pull him into his arms. “Just—let me talk for a minute.”

He leaned forward on the table and sketched out the scene for them: how Prompto and Gladio had been assigned to protect Noctis, how Ignis had been assigned to harm Noctis, and how that made Ignis the target of his guards. Noctis recounted the bruises on Ignis’s throat from the times he’d tried to defy his employer, the days that Ignis had wasted hours in the kitchen cooking for him, how he’d told him the truth, finally, and sworn not to hurt him, leaving his weapons on the kitchen table while he passed out on the sofa. He left out the fact that he’d almost taken Ignis to bed, but Ignis didn’t really want them to know about that, either.

His expression still looked pained and uncertain when he’d finished. Before anyone could speak, he continued, “So I—I was thinking we could make a deal. I want to keep all of you around. Ignis, I don’t want you to be murdered by your employer. Prompto, Gladio, I need you both on my side, too, but . . .” Noctis let out a shuddering breath. “I also need you to protect Ignis. And I need you to protect _me_ from Ignis, if it’s ever necessary. Does that make sense to everyone? Is everyone okay with that?”

Ignis wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to worry, that although he had been trained as an assassin and, once, assigned Noctis as a target, he would sooner turn his weapons on himself than he would Noct. But that wouldn’t do any good, he knew. The others wouldn’t believe him. Across the table, Gladio was still glaring at him.

“Fine by me,” Prompto said anyway.

Gladio shot him a sharp look, and while he was distracted, Ignis said, “I accept.”

“All right, if it’s such a good idea, then one of you, convince me. I don’t see how protecting someone who’s a threat is a good idea,” Gladio said, gesturing between Prompto and Ignis. “In fact, I think it’s reckless. He stabbed me in the shoulder.” He lifted a hand to indicate Ignis.

“You put a gun to my head,” Ignis said quietly.

Noctis cleared his throat. “I knew Ignis before I knew either of you,” he said. “He was supposed to be my advisor, but—”

“But he left because he’d rather assassinate you?” Gladio asked, crossing his arms over his chest as if the whole conversation bored him.

“I never _asked_ for this!” Ignis snapped. “If I’d had a choice I would still be advising your prince, not—not _this_.” He waved a hand at the knives. “I would have chosen to have a _life_ , not to be passing the time in some abandoned warehouse. Do you know what it’s like to try for hours to sleep every night, only to see the faces of all your targets when you’ve closed your eyes? And to feel their blood on your hands when you wake up? And to be reminded every day that you don’t matter because you’re a weapon, and you can be discarded once you’re no longer of use? _Do you have any idea?”_

“Ignis,” Noctis said softly.

Tears had pricked Ignis’s eyes. He refused to let them fall. No, he would not cry in front of these three.

But then again, it might prove to them he had some semblance of humanity left.

When Ignis had gone still, Noctis asked, his voice low, “Do those terms work for you?”

Gladio sighed. “Fine.”

“You guys, I—I’m doing this because I think there’s someone more dangerous out there. We have to stay on our guard. Someone killed my father, and someone wants me dead, too, and Ignis’s employer was willing to strangle him, just to get his targets taken care of.” Noctis stumbled over some of the words, but mostly, his voice remained steady. Ignis imagined he could’ve tipped his head to one side and seen the true King of Lucis, strong even in the face of threats, and he felt inadequate yet again.

“He might still try to kill me,” Ignis added. “Since I won’t do what he’s asked.”

Noctis looked pained at this suggestion, but he dropped his gaze to the table, and his bangs fell into his eyes. “We—all of us, the Crownsguard, the Kingsglaive, and I—haven’t done a good job of dealing with the recent incidents. Somehow we have to fix this.”

“We really do,” Prompto added, and after a moment, Gladio sighed and nodded.

“Ignis, since you’re not working for him anymore, can you tell us where your employer is? Give us a name or something?” Noctis asked, turning to him.

“Yes,” Ignis said, and gave them the address for the warehouse that served as the keep. He lowered his voice as he continued, and clasped his hands so that their shaking wouldn’t show. “His name is Ardyn Izunia.”

Gladio had withdrawn a small notebook from his jacket and was copying down the information that Ignis had given them. Noctis nodded in Ignis’s direction, an attempt at reassurance.

“Then looks like we’ve got a mission,” Gladio said. He closed the notebook and slipping it back inside his jacket. “We should probably head back to the Citadel.”

“Oh—gods, yeah, we definitely should,” Prompto said, practically jumping out of his chair. “We gotta pass on this information ASAP.”

Noctis stood up, too. “I’ll walk you guys out.”

He cast a meaningful glance at Ignis as the three of them left, a look that said _We have more to talk about._ Ignis paused, and listened, and a few moments later the door shut behind them.

In their wake he could do nothing but sit with his head in his hands, trembling, waiting for Noctis to come back.


	9. Chapter 9

The door to the apartment finally opened, and seconds later, Noctis rounded the corner. He paused at the edge of the kitchen, the fading light falling over him in his black suit and jacket and the sort of cape that fell over his shoulders. Ignis wanted to cry at the sight of him.

But Noctis didn’t move, and Ignis wondered if this conversation would be their last. _I know what you’ve done, and I have no choice._

“Noctis—please, forgive me.”

His prince strode over to the Ignis’s chair, placed gentle hands on his shoulders, and kissed his temple. “You’re forgiven, Ignis.”

He eased off the cape, and then the jacket, draping them both over the chair next to Ignis. He sat down and took one of Ignis’s hands in both of his.

“I was angry,” Noctis said, carefully. “And I think I have a right to be, but I also think I was too hard on you. And so—I’m sorry.”

“Six, Noctis, don’t apologize. This truly is all my fault. I should have told your guards of Ardyn right away.” He looked down at his hands. Noctis had begun to massage the tension out of the one he held, gently, making it difficult for Ignis to concentrate. “And I shouldn’t have—” He hesitated, unsure how to say it. “About what you said yesterday, I shouldn’t have tried to—I didn’t just want to be in your bed, I—”

“I know,” Noctis said, softly. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have stopped it when you did.”

Ignis breathed a sigh of relief that sounded half like a sob. Noctis drew him closer, pressed a kiss to his cheek. For several moments, the two of them stayed close, not moving, not speaking, just focusing on each other’s warmth.

“Hey, um . . . I really need to change out of these clothes,” Noctis said at last, his face slightly flushed. “They’re suffocating me. I’ll be right back.”

Ignis nodded, and Noctis pulled away, taking the two garments from the kitchen chair behind him and tucking them over one arm as he vanished into the hallway. Ignis watched him go. His prince . . . Noct was so beautiful. Ignis hated himself for ever thinking seriously about taking his life.

Noctis returned wearing casual clothes, a T-shirt and a loose pair of pants. He turned toward the living room. “Do you . . . want to sit somewhere more comfortable for a little while?”

Ignis murmured his agreement, following Noctis into the living room and sitting beside him on the sofa. Noctis folded himself into Ignis, the way he had the night before, when Ignis had brought him here to talk to him. In some ways, the living room _wasn’t_ more comfortable—it just reminded him of what he’d done. What he’d almost lost.

“So,” Noctis said, quietly, carefully, “let me get this. You were taken by your employer when you were younger and still at the Citadel, right?”

“Well—that’s not what I remember. But that must have been the way it happened,” Ignis said, shifting, uncomfortable. “If things were the way you say they were.”

Noctis leaned into Ignis’s shoulder. “That explains why my father never really said where you went. He just said something about ‘other responsibilities’ and how we might meet again someday. He probably just said that so I wouldn’t think you were dead. . . .”

He trailed off and turned his face into Ignis’s shoulder, wrapping arms around his neck and moving so close that Ignis felt he had no room to breathe. He had a moment of confusion before he placed a hand on the prince’s back and held him close.

“Noct—I don’t understand,” he whispered. “You would have thrown me out just a few nights ago.”

“I didn’t know,” Noctis said into Ignis’s shirt, the words muffled and nearly unintelligible. “I didn’t _know._ ”

“You could still throw me out, for killing a member of your Crownsguard.”

“Ignis, you don’t understand,” Noctis murmured. “You and I, we were inseparable when we were younger. They said you were supposed to be part of my court, with me for the rest of my life. And when you disappeared, no one would tell me what happened to you. But you could’ve _died._ You didn’t kill those people because you chose this—and I’ve seen what your . . . employer . . . did to you.” He reached up to trace the places where the bruises had been, and then pressed a kiss to his neck, gently.

“Noct . . .”

“You’re no different than when I met you,” Noctis said, his breath hitching. “Still saying all this bullshit about wanting to protect me, and trying to break all the rules for me.”

Though he could still recall nothing about the years they’d shared early on, Ignis couldn’t help but smile. “It would have been my job, had I not been forced to give it up.”

Noctis hummed, in acknowledgment or with their closeness, Ignis wasn’t sure. But in the next heartbeat, Noctis pulled him down, so that they lay across the sofa with limbs tangled. Noctis lay beneath him. All of him was so warm and beautiful and _real_ that Ignis momentarily forgot his reservations. Noctis kissed him, once, twice—his hands slipped to Ignis’s waist, and Ignis lost count entirely. This was a reunion, a discovery, a reconciliation. Ignis felt as if he had been broken for the last ten years, and Noctis was just beginning to piece him back together—to piece _them_ back together. His chest felt flooded and burning like oil on water.

Noctis’s hands gripped his hips, fingers digging in so hard it hurt, but Ignis barely noticed. In the face of all the pain he had experienced in his life, this was nothing. Nothing. Noctis arched up into him with a little noise from the back of his throat.

“Noct.”

His prince, preoccupied by the plane of skin just beneath his collar, didn’t answer. He continued to stubbornly press kisses to the skin there, stealing Ignis’s concentration until he repeated his name.

“Do you have to be somewhere in the morning? I can’t be responsible for keeping you up if you have meetings or something of the sort,” Ignis said, wavering.

Noctis let out a long sigh, the wordless frustration of someone who’d been interrupted. “Yeah, I’ve got meetings at the Citadel. But I don’t _care._ I’d rather be with you.”

Ignis might have agreed, but the darkness of their earlier conversation still clouded his thoughts, and he just licked his lips, looking away. His head ached again. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let Noctis kiss him.

“What?” His prince’s tone had softened, despite everything. His eyes had, too, as he searched Ignis’s face, looking for what he’d missed.

“You—you have my apologies,” Ignis stammered. “For not speaking of . . . what I was . . . sooner.”

“Your apology’s accepted.” Noctis slid a hand gently down Ignis’s arm. “But if you really want to make it up to me . . .”

“Yes,” Ignis whispered.

He let Noctis drag him down again, let him slide his glasses away from his face and set them aside, let him part his lips with slow, open-mouthed kisses that quickly turned hot and urgent. Noctis fumbled with the hem of his shirt and then the buttons, breaking away from Ignis only to slide the fabric over his shoulders.

Ignis winced as his hands brushed bare skin.

“You okay?” Noctis asked, out of breath. He’d cast Ignis’s shirt to the floor but hadn’t missed the sudden slight tension in his muscles. And he’d stopped long enough for his gaze to snag on the old scar that marked Ignis’s shoulder. His breath hissed out in a small sigh, and he traced the edges of the scar with his thumb.

It wasn’t the only scar. Over the last ten years, with training and with each assignment he’d taken on, Ignis had acquired scar after scar, until they seemed to spell out his story in a foreign language across his skin. The people he’d been with before—meaningless now, he realized—had known, or had consented to letting him keep them covered. He’d never loved the scars. On those rare occasions when he looked in the mirror and found them standing out in a worn network on his body, he’d been reminded of the way the last ten years had changed him, from a boy with potential to a honed weapon. Now they reminded him even more of what he’d lost. A life at the Citadel, without the endless blood and danger and trauma. A life protecting his prince.

“They don’t hurt anymore, do they?” Noctis whispered.

They didn’t, at least not physically. But the pain of remembering them, the pain he felt when Noctis saw what these ten years had done to him—that was almost worse. “Sometimes,” he said.

“I’m sorry.” Noctis stretched up to kiss the scar on his shoulder. “They don’t change anything. You’re still as stunning as the day I saw you in that bar. . . .”

“Obviously my memory isn’t terribly accurate,” Ignis said, “but I’m fairly sure no one has ever called me stunning.”

“Then,” Noctis smiled, “I’ll gladly be the first.”

He pulled Ignis down again to kiss him, and Ignis slipped his hands under Noctis’s shirt. Noctis wasn’t his first, but he might as well have been, for all that the others had meant to him. He’d been desperate and looking for a way to quiet the thoughts in his head, and he knew they’d felt the same.

He’d only seen one of his few interests multiple times. The others had lasted, well, one night. If it were possible, he’d only ever felt lonelier in the morning.

But _Noctis._ His prince was different—a resounding melody heard after so many years in silence. Every time Noctis had touched him, he’d felt it _everywhere_ in his body, his very bones ablaze, old kindling fueled by fresh gasoline. He didn’t feel lonely in Noctis’s presence.

He managed to get Noctis’s shirt over his head and moved to kiss his collarbone, his chest, his stomach, and finally his hip. Noctis tipped his head back and let him. Each breath he took was harsher, sharper, and he clung to Ignis, fingers digging into his back. Ignis lingered where he was, pressing another kiss to Noctis’s hip, then another. He could feel Noctis straining, forcing himself not to lift his hips. Ignis stretched up to cover Noctis’s body with his own.

 Noctis’s hand came between them, and when he grazed Ignis through his clothes, Ignis felt his breath escape him in a sound somewhere between a hiss and a moan. Noctis’s fingers caught at his belt.

“For the gods’ sake, Noct—”

Rather ungracefully despite his training, Ignis rolled off the sofa and staggered to his feet, taking Noctis’s hand to guide him up and out of the room. Noctis stayed pressed against him, trying to steal kisses, and as a result they stumbled into the spare room, narrowly avoiding a collision with the door frame. Halfway toward the bed, Noctis stopped.

“Hold on. I don’t have . . .” He paused, his eyes flicking toward the door. “Are you sure you don’t want to just use my room?”

“Wouldn’t want to make a mess of it if you’ve things to do in the morning,” Ignis said.

Noctis sighed. “Yeah, okay. Just give me a minute.” He slipped out into the hall.

When he returned a minute later, he pressed a bottle and a small square packet against Ignis’s chest. Ignis tried to slow his breathing and his racing heart as he accepted them.

“Noct . . . You’re sure?”

Noctis moved closer to kiss him, the pressure of his mouth hard and unyielding and his hands tight on Ignis’s waist. “ _Yes._ ”

He pushed Ignis back onto the bed, and they moved both in tandem and in chaos, Noctis working at Ignis’s belt while Ignis pressed kisses to his mouth. They were a tangle of limbs and sheets, heat and discarded clothing. The room was dark, rendering his scars nearly invisible, and when Noctis finally freed him from his belt and the rest of his clothes, he realized he was completely disarmed—most of his knives hidden in his jacket, the last occupying a space in his shoe. This was what he needed. To give himself up completely to Noctis, to shed his usual steel skin.

Ignis flipped them over so that his body was angled over Noct’s again, and he tugged at Noctis’s waistband, sliding his remaining clothes over his legs and sweeping them to the floor. He searched with one free hand for the bottle while Noctis pulled him closer.

When he found it, and he reached down to slip his hand between Noctis’s parted thighs, his prince’s answering moan could have woken whoever lived next door. If anyone was indeed next door—perhaps they were alone. At the movement of Ignis’s fingers inside him, Noctis’s breaths became desperate gasps.

_This,_ Ignis thought. _This is all I need—to know that I can please you, my prince._

He withdrew for a moment to prepare before returning fully to Noctis, whose hands were gripping the sheets like a lifeline. Noctis latched onto him when he was close enough, hands clenching his shoulders as Ignis thrust into him. He gave Noctis a few heartbeats to adjust, but Noctis just continued to beg him, while his fingers dug deeper into Ignis’s skin. Ignis obeyed his pleas, and Noctis cried out.

Ignis moved against him, slowly at first, and felt Noctis’s legs lock around his waist. Noctis arched up into him again, urging him to go faster. Ignis did.

Noctis reacted to all of this, pleased sounds and moans of Ignis’s name escaping past his parted lips, and Ignis realized his prince’s voice was lovely like this. Besides, Ignis had always forced himself to remain quiet those few times before—either because the walls had been thin and didn’t offer much privacy, or because he’d been embarrassed of the way his own voice had sounded. But with Noctis crying out under him, he found those memories very far away.

He wrapped one hand around Noctis, who threw his head back with a gasp. He pushed back against Ignis with every stroke. When he finally came, he bit Ignis’s shoulder so hard that Ignis let out a sharp cry, too. After the shocks had finally worked their way through his body, he placed his hands far more gently on Ignis’s shoulders and guided him to his own release. His prince’s name slipped past his lips, and Ignis collapsed on top of Noctis, his muscles shaking.

He started to move away, not wanting to pin Noctis down, but Noctis stopped him. “Hey, wait, Ignis.” His hand brushed the old scar on his shoulder again. “Hold on. Did I hurt you?”

“It’s all right, Noct. It doesn’t matter.” Ignis pulled back again, yet still, Noctis wouldn’t let him go.

He kissed Ignis’s mouth, softly. “Yes, it does,” he said. “It matters a lot. I don’t want you to be in any more pain.”

Ignis touched his shoulder. Noctis had narrowly missed the largest scar that marred his skin there. “It was only for a moment.”

“It was long enough.” Noctis brushed his hand aside and kissed the skin of his shoulder, gently, and Ignis couldn’t hold back his sigh. He nearly fell into Noctis a second time.

When the moment of weakness had passed, he slid out of bed to clean up—he was sticky and spent—and when he returned to Noctis, he found his prince already asleep, tangled in the sheets and breathing deeply. Not wanting to disturb him, Ignis lay down carefully beside him, putting an arm around his waist. His skin was warm and soft where Ignis’s was warm and rough and scarred.

_You’re too good to me, Your Highness,_ he thought.

He drifted off only to wake to shafts of bright sunlight falling into the spare room. He had no idea what time it was, or whether he’d made Noctis late for his meetings, but his prince still slept soundly beside him. Ignis dragged himself out of bed, halfheartedly pulled on his clothes, and crossed the apartment to the bathroom. But before he could shut and lock the door, someone stopped it from the other side.

“Hey,” Noctis’s voice said, and Ignis caught a glimpse of him through the gap between the door and the frame. His eyes were still bleary with sleep. “Mind if I come in?”

Ignis thought of Noctis uncovering his scars yesterday and tried to push the door closed again. Noctis wouldn’t let him, and so he relented. “All right.”

Noct stepped into the bathroom beside him, wearing only the loose pair of pants he’d had on last night, and shut the door. Ignis’s breath caught again at the sight of him.

But he forced himself to focus on other things, not Noctis and _especially_ not the fact that the bright lights over the mirror were going to make his scars all too obvious. He undressed hastily and stepped into the shower, letting the steady stream of water distract him.

Noctis appeared moments later, his pale skin bare, his eyes immediately flicking to Ignis’s chest, where the worst of the scars were. Ignis shivered and resisted the urge to try to cover those scars with his hands.

Still, for several minutes Noctis didn’t speak of them. He told Ignis that he still had a little while before his meetings and asked him to wash his hair. Ignis obliged. He thought he heard Noctis make a low sort of involuntary noise as his fingers worked across his scalp, and he told himself not to react, but not long later, Noctis had his head tipped back against the spray of water, lips parted and throat exposed.

Ignis took a deep breath.

Then Noctis was looking at him again, and he felt himself go cold. Ignis could _feel_ his eyes tracing each and every scar that marred his chest, his torso, his arms, even a couple on his legs. The moment seemed to last an eternity.

Noct took a tentative step forward, one hand stretching out to trace a scar on his abdomen, thick and pale. Ignis flinched, but Noct moved his hand up to another that crossed his ribs. “You have . . . so many scars,” he said softly.

“I know.” Ignis resisted the urge to escape Noctis’s view, to step out of the shower and back into his clothes. He still hated the way the scars had changed him.

“They’re lovely,” Noctis reassured him. Without hesitating, he moved forward and pressed his lips to one of them.

In the heartbeats thereafter, Ignis was fairly sure he’d gasped. Noctis, however, didn’t react. He continued on that path, kissing each scar he found until he could make his way back up to Ignis’s mouth.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Noctis murmured.

Ignis shuddered, closing his eyes against the twin onsets of desire and fear. “Noctis, those scars are from the battles I fought, the assignments I carried out. They are marks of the years I worked as an assassin. You, of all people, should not have to accept them.”

Noctis just pulled him back in for another kiss, and Ignis had begun to wonder if he’d even been listening when he said, “They’re proof that someone else tried to hurt you, and that you survived.” Before Ignis could reply to that, he asked, “How many of them were because of him? Your employer?”

Ignis glanced down. He could recount the story of every scar—here Ardyn had made it past his guard in training, there he’d thrown a knife and nicked the skin to teach Ignis how not to flinch, here the hard toe of his boot had broken the skin as well as bruised, and that didn’t even count the scars on his back. No, there were more, side-by-side with the scars he’d earned from fights. He’d been trapped for so many years—

“Ignis,” Noctis said softly, stroking his cheekbone with a thumb. “Hey. Come back. You’re okay.”

“I hope the Kingsglaive finds him,” Ignis said through his teeth.

Noctis took care to calm him down, running careful hands through his hair and eventually asking quiet permission to wash his back. Ignis sighed.

“The scars . . . are worse back there,” he said.

He turned around, and flinched at first when he felt Noctis trace one of them with a finger, following the ridges that ran parallel to his spine. Noctis pulled his hand back, whispering apologies. After a moment, he pressed his lips to Ignis’s shoulder blade, where no scars marked the skin.

“Who the fuck did this to you?” he murmured.

“Not Ardyn, actually. One of my targets thought it would be more efficient to trap me before I could get to him. He knew my employer had it out for him, and he was prepared.” Behind him, Noctis said nothing. “Unfortunately for him, I had the training, and I was able to free myself when he thought I was defeated. Things did not end well for him.”

More silence from Noctis. “You went through all that so your employer could off some guy he didn’t like,” he said finally.

“In essence.”

“That’s bullshit,” Noctis said.

Ignis felt him press the soft cloth to his shoulders, working his way across the skin and the scars gingerly. He let a low laugh escape him. “Indeed.”

He could still _feel_ Noctis examining the scars as he worked, and the sensation made his spine prickle. Only Aranea had seen his scars in their entirety, but she _didn’t care._ She had never looked at him the way Noctis did.

“You’re so tense,” Noctis said, and moved to stand in front of him, his hands warm and working over every inch of Ignis’s skin that he could find. Ignis willed his muscles to relax. Slowly, they did, and he knew when Noctis felt it, too, because he smirked and asked Ignis to return the favor.

He’d had all of Noctis last night, and yet with his hands on his prince’s warm skin, he felt as if he were discovering him again. Noctis closed his eyes, and before long, his hands had found Ignis again, too, drawing him closer. Close enough that their lips could brush.

Noctis managed to make him forget everything—he parted Ignis’s lips with his own, weaved their fingers together and pushed Ignis’s hands against the wall, shifted close enough that all Ignis could think about was _him_. And when he felt Noctis pressing against his thigh, shit, _shit,_ of _course—_

“We’re not doing this here,” he said. Noctis just grinned in reply.

They barely made it into Noctis’s bedroom, and by that time, they’d both forgotten that they’d agreed to use the spare room instead. There were no clothes to shed this time, only skin against skin and fierce heat and their hands on each other, Noctis pushing him down and bringing him to the edge with nothing but his hands, Ignis’s head tipped back and his hips arched up, his mind blessedly blank. He recovered enough to remember to do the same for Noctis, barely hanging on as Noctis’s strokes slowed for a moment and he adjusted to the feeling of Ignis’s hands on him.

Still, Ignis went over the edge first, hips driving hard up into Noctis’s as he cried out. Almost as soon as he continued his touches, Noctis came after him, though thankfully he didn’t bite this time. He fell into the sheets next to Ignis.

Ignis barely had a moment to contemplate how good Noctis’s warmth felt beside him—the clock on the wall opposite him told him it was past ten. He groaned and lay an arm over his eyes.

“Noct, I—”

“Shh. Don’t say anything,” Noctis said. “It’s my fault, anyway. I’ll take care of this when I get back.” He made a gesture at the sheets, which Ignis didn’t even want to think about. “Ah, hell, your clothes are in the other room, too. I’ll get them for you.”

“Just go,” Ignis said softly, reaching over to stroke his still-damp hair. “Get to your meetings. I doubt the Kingsglaive would like to hear the reason you’re late.”

“I’m not late.” A glance at the clock. “Yet. See you tonight.” He kissed Ignis’s cheek and slid out of bed, darting out of the room.

As Ignis lay there and listened to the doors opening and closing in Noct’s wake, he half wondered how he’d gotten here. How he’d gone from being thrown out of the prince’s apartment to being in his bed. Twice. Had this happened before he’d told Noctis the truth, he might have wanted to throw himself out the nearest window as punishment.

Noctis did in fact bring his clothes back, laying them at Ignis’s feet, and the look in his eyes was so damn sincere that Ignis stopped wondering. He’d been at Noctis’s side, once, and they’d been close, _so close,_ it only seemed natural that they would return to each other now. That bond had never been severed.

After he’d cleaned up, stepped back into his clothes, and checked the bathroom mirror to ensure he looked presentable, he stood in the center of the apartment wondering what his next move should be. He could just stay here, of course, but without Noctis the place just felt empty. He could go back to the clinic, but he didn’t know whether Aranea and the others would be there, or if Luna would be busy. Maybe if Aranea wasn’t around, he could leave a message for her there. They didn’t really have another way to contact each other now that Ignis had become a stranger to the keep.

It was worth a shot, anyway. He should probably tell them the news about the Kingsglaive.

He collected his remaining knives and his jacket and left Noctis’s apartment, taking to the streets again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Yeah. So I'll just... leave this here.
> 
> *runs away*


	10. Chapter 10

Out in the open, Ignis looked for the place where he’d parked the Audi. As usual, he’d parked several blocks away from Noctis’s apartment building, so that neither residents of the building nor those who knew Ardyn would take notice of the car. But halfway there, he felt a sudden _force_ stop him, and the sensation that a blast of cold air had suddenly hit him full-on, even though he knew the temperature couldn’t have changed.

Ignis paused and looked around, trying not to shiver as the air slowly warmed again. The street was . . . empty. That was strange. Several other buildings lined it on either side, making it a place that should have hosted at least a bit of traffic at this time of day. Something was wrong.

He spun just before the attack. Later he would try to remember how he’d sensed it coming and fail. Perhaps his training would truly never leave him. In any case, his blade connected with someone else’s, the steel ringing in the uncanny silence, and he stood face-to-face with Ravus Nox Fleuret.

“You nearly left yourself wide open,” Ravus sneered. “But of course, Master Izunia wouldn’t have sent me after such an easy target, would he? I knew there was more to you than that.” He took a step, pushing Ignis back. “After all, he trained you.”

“So he did,” Ignis hissed. “And yet he’s truly trying to dispose of me?”

“You have outstayed your welcome,” Ravus said. “You are like a weapon that has warped in the forge, unable to accomplish its intended purpose. _Ruined._ You. Are. Useless.”

“And are those words yours, or his?”

Ravus swung his sword, forcing Ignis to take several steps back with each blow he dealt. Ignis blocked, again and again, but he felt a stab of pain in his upper arm and knew he hadn’t been entirely successful. Ravus must have grazed him. He could only hope that Ardyn hadn’t stooped so low as to use poisoned blades.

“The Prince of Lucis, Scientia. You’ve had your chance. Your turn is over,” Ravus said, beginning to circle him. “I hope you realize that had you done it, we all would have had everything. The ring. The throne. _Revenge._ ”

“I’ve no idea what you mean.” But Ignis could feel his pulse in his throat. _Shit, he’s serious—that’s the ring Noctis wears._

“The power of kings lies within that ring. It is hundreds of years old, Scientia. Power enough to raise up the strong and strike down the unworthy. The Lucians know not how to use it—that old fool Regis died trying to protect it without even summoning its power.” Ravus shook his head.

“Don’t call the king an old fool,” Ignis said. He tightened his grip on the knife in his hand, hoping the low buzz of fear he felt didn’t make its way into his voice.

“He is not my king.” Ravus advanced on him. Ignis held his ground. “And _my_ throne was stolen from me. My country was thrown into chaos, and _this_ cursed city killed my sister. I did everything I could. And what would the Lucians have done in my place? Sat back and watched it burn?”

“What does Ardyn want with that ring?” Ignis asked.

“He wants his own power back.”

“What—” Ignis couldn’t find the words to form a question. Ardyn had all the power in Insomnia. Power over his targets, over his assassins, over the king and his court and even the public. Why should he feel the need to ruin more lives over a ring and a throne that by no rights belonged to him?

“He hasn’t always just been an assassin, you know,” Ravus said with a sneer. “No, I suppose you _don’t_ know. He was cast out of the Citadel by our old fool king, whose court blamed our dear master for a death he had no hand in. I can’t say I blame him for wanting revenge.”

“How can you take him at his word? Perhaps he did indeed commit the crime,” Ignis said.

“Have you fallen so far, to mistrust the man who saved you?”

Ignis launched himself at Ravus, but Ravus knocked his blade aside with a flick of his wrist. The two of them became a blur of movement, arms swinging, blades clashing, each movement faster than sight and absolutely methodical, effortless for two assassins who’d been trained ruthlessly by the same master. Ignis felt Ravus’s sword graze him a couple of times, but never enough to incapacitate him. Though he’d mostly let his instinct take over, responding almost unconsciously to the blows that came at him, he wondered if the fight would ultimately come to a stalemate.

Heartbeats later, a cataclysm of pain arced through his thigh.

He crashed to the ground, fighting the scream that rose in his throat. He could barely breathe through the pain, and looking down to see the knife protruding from his thigh only made it worse. A half second later, Ravus was bent over him, his hands planted next to Ignis’s shoulders, knees on either side of his hips, preventing him from moving. Not that Ignis would have been able to.

He’d been stabbed before, of course, but he’d managed to forget the sheer _intensity_ of the pain. The way it blocked out all other thoughts, made it impossible to move, to concentrate. But Six, no, it couldn’t end here, or now—

“Izunia was right about you,” Ravus said, his voice a hiss.

The _knife,_ where the hell had that knife come from—

“You are weak.” Ravus had his sword in his hand, and he shifted his grip on it, probably preparing to draw it across Ignis’s throat, to finally end him. But Ignis knew now that both Ardyn and Ravus were wrong. He wasn’t useless. He could _stop_ them. And perhaps he was the only one who could.

He didn’t have to take Noctis’s life.

He could protect him instead.

In the space of a heartbeat, Ignis grasped Ravus’s shoulder, pulled him down, and stabbed him under the arm. The other assassin made a guttural sort of choking noise, his outstretched hand dropping his sword. His blood gushed over Ignis’s hand.

“You’ll never save him,” Ravus rasped. “Izunia—is already with your—”

He went limp, and Ignis struggled under his weight, fighting him as Ravus began to cough up blood. Drops of it fell onto Ignis’s jacket. He hoped that the street remained empty, that Ravus had truly cleared the area of any witnesses as he withdrew the blade of the knife and, finally, escaped the space between the other assassin’s body and the pavement.

“Lovely,” he said under his breath. He’d just killed someone in full daylight, not to mention that it had been Ravus— _Ravus._ As if Ardyn needed another reason to kill him. He was covered in evidence, with no way to discreetly cleanse himself of it.

Eyeing the knife in his leg, Ignis peeled off his torn, bloody jacket. He eased the blade back out, wincing at the fresh blood that surfaced in its wake. The pain was less than he’d expected—the adrenaline from the last moments of the fight had probably done its analgesic work. He used the knife to cut a strip of fabric from his jacket and press the fabric to the wound to stop the bleeding, before realizing he couldn’t spend any more time waiting for it to stabilize. He tied the piece of fabric—not too tightly—around his leg and pushed himself to his feet.

He walked the rest of the way to Ardyn’s car, keeping his pace slow even though he wanted to run. Couldn’t afford to draw attention.

In the driver’s seat of the Audi, he collapsed over the steering wheel. That invisible rope had tightened around his chest again, rendering him barely able to breathe. Shit. _Shit._ He’d killed Ravus Nox Fleuret. He was going to leave bloodstains in this goddamn car. Ardyn wanted him dead. He should never have left Noctis’s apartment. _He’d killed Ravus Nox Fleuret._

He pushed down the anxiety that threatened to overflow and overwhelm him, started the car, and drove to the clinic. His hands shook. He couldn’t remember the last few streets and ended up driving in frantic circles for several minutes before he got there, silent, unable to take his mind off the fact that he didn’t have time to waste.

When he pulled into the lot in front of the clinic—which was virtually empty—he nearly fell out of the car, going to his knees. One of his hands gripped the driver’s door, while the other scraped against the concrete. Instead of the city’s usual noise of breezes and distant traffic, he could hear only a low buzz.

Eventually he found the strength to get up and go into the clinic, where he found Luna sitting in the main room watching over a patient. Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she stood up.

“Ignis,” she said, crossing the room to meet him. He saw her eyes tracking the blood on his jacket, his hands. “You’re hurt—what happened?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” Ignis said. “I was in a—a bit of a conflict. I’ll recover. I just need to know—have you seen Aranea? Has she spoken to you about anything?”

Luna shook her head. “She doesn’t come around often. The last time I saw her was when you were here. Why? Shall I try to contact her?”

“Please,” Ignis said. “If you can. Tell her I’m afraid for Noctis’s life. And my own. That I need . . . help.”

“All right, yes, as soon as I see her.” Luna glanced down at the makeshift bandage tied around his leg. “You’re bleeding. You should sit down.”

“No,” Ignis breathed, his throat tight. “I can’t. I have to find Noctis. If I don’t—”

“Ignis. Please. That wound could kill you if you do not attend to it,” she said. “At least allow me to look at it. I will let you leave when I am finished, inadvisable or no.”

“All right.”

He sat down on one of the cots and let her peel the bloody remains of his jacket away from the wound. She examined it, sighed and closed her eyes, whispered something unintelligible under her breath.

“What is it?” Ignis asked.

“A wound like this requires considerable care,” Luna said. “By all standards I should not let you leave for a few more days. But since you want so badly to be on your way . . .” She covered her face with her hands. “Please, promise me you will be careful.”

He agreed, and Luna left to retrieve some supplies before returning to make an attempt at cleaning the wound. She used damp cloths and a solution that made his entire leg feel like it was on fire. The adrenaline had faded somewhat, giving way to a constant throb that made it nearly impossible to think straight. He tried not to react to anything Luna did—his training should have been on his side in at least that—but once or twice a grunt of pain escaped him, and she glanced up at him in sympathy.

At last she replaced the worn fabric with a real bandage, albeit a temporary one, and stood up.

“If you insist on leaving, this is all I can do for you now,” Luna said softly. “I pray that you will return safely. And I will do my best to deliver your message.”

“You have my thanks.”

“You’ll have to come back,” she told him. “So that I can treat the wound properly.”

“Of course.”

Ignis rose to his feet, and though the movement sent pain shooting through his leg, he buried it all, preparing for his next move the way he would once have prepared for an assignment.

This time, his objective was to _save_ Noctis’s life.

 

* * *

 

Ignis had only Ravus’s words to go on, and the other assassin had barely even given him a full sentence. He could only guess at what Ravus had meant, anyway, though the implications seemed pretty clear given the circumstances. _You’ll never save him._ Something was bound to happen to Noctis, and Ravus seemed to think Ignis wouldn’t be able to do anything about it. _Izunia is already with your . . ._ Though Ignis had little evidence to back it up, he inferred that Ardyn had already found his way to Noctis. Ravus had probably been the distraction, meant to keep Ignis busy if not do away with him completely.

Still, he’d given Ignis no clues as to where to find them. And the thought of being too late . . .

He took the Audi out, practically flooring the gas pedal in his haste to return to Noctis’s apartment. His first instinct had been to go to the Citadel, but he knew infiltrating that building would be an infinitely harder job, and he could make a sweep of Noctis’s apartment in just a few minutes. Besides, he needed those few minutes to plan.

He expected the apartment to be deserted, the door locked and the space beyond quiet, the way he’d left it. Yet when he tapped his knuckles against the door, he thought he heard the echo of a voice beyond.

No one opened the door.

Frantic, Ignis dug the lockpick out of his pocket and fumbled with the handle, but it _gave_ when his hand made contact with it. The door was unlocked.

He couldn’t breathe. He pushed the door open, gently, silently, and moved into the apartment beyond.

The room was blanketed in darkness. Spinning, thrumming darkness, casting shadows too long for this hour of the day. Ignis pressed a hand to his forehead and staggered back against the door. He blinked, trying to clear his head, to see straight. How could the place be so damn dark?

A few heartbeats passed, and a few of the shadows in the room resolved into something else.

Blood.

For a second, Ignis couldn’t think. He pressed a hand to his mouth, surveying the room. No. His eyes had to be lying to him. That couldn’t be—it _couldn’t be—_ blood smeared across the floor, spattered on overturned furniture, on the walls. _No, no, Six, no._ The shadows kept changing into blood, the blood into shadows. He tried to track the patterns, to see whether there’d been a fight or if it had been willful slaughter, but none of it made sense. It looked more like someone had taken a paintbrush to the room.

But none of them had ever seen Ardyn take on a target of his own—what if he’d—

Ignis was on his knees, trying not to vomit. If he had truly arrived too late, he didn’t want to know what manner of torture had brought this canvas of blood to life. He couldn’t bear to see the aftermath—but—

There, again, a voice. Noct’s voice. A single note, high and agonized, followed by the whispers of consonants from another voice entirely. No. _Gods, no, please._

But of course Ardyn would. What better place to imprison a prince than in his apartment outside of the Citadel—the apartment few knew about and fewer would be able to find? He felt rage and fear like fire and ice in his veins, and his hands shook as he reached for the blades in his jacket.

He crossed the apartment, moving toward the place where he’d heard Noctis’s voice. The floor seemed to move under his feet, and he had to concentrate just to keep his balance. He paused outside the door, and—and it was the bedroom door. Where he’d been with Noctis just this morning. His hand already gripping the hilt of a knife, Ignis pressed his back against one wall. With no way to enter unseen, he reasoned, he’d just have to rush in.

Steeling himself, he threw the door open. He still found himself unprepared for the sight of the room beyond—Ardyn, standing like a shadow in a black cloak, a long knife in his hand, Death incarnate. Noctis, his wrists bound to one of the posts at the end of the bed, his shirt bloody and torn in several places, his eyes wide with fear. A cut marked one of his cheekbones, an escaped trickle of blood running down his face. He met Ignis’s eyes, and the only message Ignis could make out there was _Help me._

 _This is my fault,_ Ignis wanted to tell him. His chest felt raw and aching, as if a crevasse had opened inside it. He wanted to run to Noctis, to lift him out of this hell, to soothe away his wounds. _I’m so sorry._

“Oh, Scientia. You finally showed up,” Ardyn said, spreading his hands and smiling amiably. “I was just telling Noctis here all of the things I would do to him. It’s a good thing you didn’t _miss_ it.” And there it was—the flash of malice in his eyes. The threat. _You would’ve missed the moment his heart stopped beating,_ that look said. _But now that you’re here, I can deal with you, too._

He strode toward Ignis, each step slow and deliberate. Ignis tensed. For a moment, he was in Ardyn’s office, clenching his teeth and waiting for the blow.

“The truth is,” Ardyn began, his voice descending into deadly calm, “I’ve had my eye on you for a long time, Scientia. I know what you’ve been doing. I know you’ve disobeyed orders—refusing to kill your target, and then visiting him like a lover? Conspiring with other assassins and planning to escape? Those are your crimes, are they not?” When Ignis didn’t respond, Ardyn glanced back at Noctis. “Perhaps I should let you watch while I cut the ring from his hand.”

Noctis closed his eyes and turned away, as if resigning himself to it. Ignis shook his head. “Don’t you _dare—_ ”

“How many times have I warned you not to speak that way to me?” Ardyn asked. “It seems I shall have to deal with you first.”

He stabbed at Ignis’s torso, the movement so fast that anyone without the proper training would have already lost. But Ignis deflected the blow, then focused on each move that Ardyn made, looking for patterns. It wouldn’t be wise to make any offensive moves on his side just yet—better to stay on the defensive and wait for an opening.

Ardyn made a slice at Ignis’s leg, forcing him to take a step back— _shit._ A step back was a concession, admitting weakness. Ardyn’s blade came too close to his torso. Another step. He was two steps closer to the door and losing ground. But then again, if he tried to push Ardyn back, they’d be that much closer to Noctis. His eyes flicked to the prince’s bloody form, crouched on the floor in the middle of the room—

A boot collided with his thigh, in the exact spot where Luna had patched him up, the spot where Ravus’s knife had pierced the skin. Ignis gasped, stumbling backward. Giving Ardyn the perfect opening. _No._ His hand grazed another knife in his jacket, preparing to draw it.

But Ardyn didn’t stab him. Instead, in another flash of motion, he reached out and took Ignis by the throat.

“Oh, you don’t remember, Scientia? How tragic.” Ardyn’s thumb pressed against his pulse, a warning, a victory. “I saved you.”

At the stunned look in Ignis’s eyes, Ardyn smirked, shook his head, and shoved him back, sending him to the ground. Ignis felt the back of his head collide with the floor. He heard a sharp crack, and then—

The world went dark.

 

* * *

 

“What you must always remember . . .” Ardyn’s voice wavered in his mind, fading in and out as he reached blindly for consciousness. “. . . is that I saved you. You don’t need to remember the Citadel any longer, nor the prince. No. No matter what they tell you, no matter what happens, I saved you from that darkness. Do you see?”

Ignis blinked, his vision hazy and his chest constricted, making it difficult to draw breath. He was in his twelve-year-old body, still weak and barely trained.

And blanketed in blood.

“You shouldn’t have been out there like that on your own,” Ardyn said. “Those . . . _criminals._ They could’ve hurt you, do you understand? You were much too vulnerable alone. But I’ll give you a hand. Don’t worry.” He leaned closer to Ignis, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You’ll be equipped to defend yourself soon enough, and then you can repay me. Does that sound like a deal?”

Ignis felt himself slipping again. He couldn’t find the breath to answer.

 

* * *

 

He remembered, in flashes, the wounds inflicted on his weak twelve-year-old body. The beatings, the lashes, the ice water thrown in his face. The endless questions. He’d pushed all of those memories out—because in those rare moments when he’d dared to look up at the face of his abuser . . .

And the isolation. The loneliness. His wounds hadn’t been treated, nor had they been bandaged, and he had lain in that room—rendered unidentifiable by his memory—alone with the pain. He’d slammed his battered hands against the door, over and over, praying it would open, screaming for someone to save him.

On the last day, Ardyn had opened it, his savior once again.

 

* * *

 

He could hear Ardyn’s footsteps as he crossed the room back to Noctis. Hell, he could sense every movement in the room, even though he knew he must be unconscious. He wanted to call out to Noctis, to shout at Ardyn, to open his eyes. To push himself up from the floor. To pick up his knives.

“Where was I?” Ardyn said, his voice low, near a whisper. “Ah, yes. How do you think my dearest assassin here would feel if I ruined that pretty face of yours, Your Highness? No, excuse me— _Noctis._ Well, I don’t suppose he would care very much in this state, would he?”

In answer, Noctis whimpered. The sound was so very real and fearful, so young and afraid and unlike the king that Ignis had seen in him. But who could stand up straight, facing Death himself? He wanted to sweep Noct out of Ardyn’s sight.

Sight. He blinked. Felt his fingers twitch. His knives were on the ground beside him.

His eyes were open.

He wasn’t unconscious.

Each breath felt like fire in his lungs. Gods above, hell below. He couldn’t see. He was _blind._

And Ardyn thought he’d been knocked out.

By the time he’d managed—at least for the moment—to make it past the fact that his vision had left him, all he could think was that he’d trained for this. _He had trained for this._ He’d waited behind walls and outside doors while his targets moved in the rooms beyond, listening to voices and footfalls to determine the location of furniture and the stature of the person. He had been told to hone his other senses in fights, to rely not just on sight but on all five equally. And he’d walked in darkness for so many years that he could practically consider it a home.

Ignis rose slowly, listening to the hiss of Ardyn’s voice, the hush of fabric that signaled movement, Noctis’s panicked breaths. He heard a blade being drawn from its sheath. A low murmur from Ardyn.

Yet he made it only a few steps when Ardyn shot to his feet as well, with the sound of air being displaced by the blades in each of his hands. Ignis reached out with all of his senses. Noctis’s gasps for breath still distracted him, but he could feel Ardyn’s stillness now, too, awaiting a move, trying to read him.

Suddenly, despite his training, Ignis knew that the chances of his survival were very, very low.

Yet Ardyn might not have realized that he’d blinded Ignis yet. He had only moments before Ardyn noticed his unfocused eyes, the caution in his stance. He could hear his own heart beating.

One moment Ardyn stood still before him, and the next moment he was a whirlwind of motion again, his blades no doubt searching for blood. Ignis could sense the paths of the weapons, but still, without his sight the deficit was too much, and he could do nothing but dodge, stepping back again and again. He knew he had to do something, or he’d be impaled against the bedroom door. But he couldn’t find an opening, no matter how hard he tried to follow Ardyn with his other senses.

He could _feel_ the wall behind him as he backed up closer to it, and he swung one of his knives out, desperate. Ardyn deflected the blow and disarmed him of the weapon, knocking it out of his hand. The edge of the blade stung his hand. He heard his own knife hit the floor, out of reach.

He just needed to put some additional distance between himself and Ardyn, and make sure he didn’t hit Noctis. Close range would be best.

Ignis winced as Ardyn caught him in the shoulder, on his unarmed side. His only other weapon was the small one hidden in his shoe. He knew he had no chance of retrieving it, not in the middle of this fight, and that meant he was left with just the weapon in his hand.

He couldn’t waver. If he failed, he’d be left with no way to defend himself.

One of Ardyn’s blades swept at him again, and he dropped almost into a crouch, using his momentum to propel himself two long steps backward. Taking advantage of the small window of time he knew he’d have before Ardyn caught up to him, he weighed his last knife in his hand and launched it through the air.

For a terrifying moment, the world was silent.

The knife connected, and Ignis heard it rend flesh, as well as Ardyn’s grunt of surprise. Yet he didn’t stop for more than a breath, picking up his weapons again and flying at Ignis with the same strength and speed that he had before. Ignis dodged again, feeling the blades graze his arms as he raised them instinctively to protect his face and chest. He must not have hit Ardyn in a lethal spot. If that were true, and he couldn’t get his knife back, then he’d failed.

This thought had just crossed his mind when he heard—and felt—both of Ardyn’s weapons drop to the floor. Another thud of weight against the floor signaled that he’d fallen.

“I trained you well,” Ardyn said, and laughed.

Ignis reached for the sound of his voice, found the hilt of the knife, and twisted it. Ardyn’s voice choked off into a cough, and as he finally lost consciousness, he tipped backward to hit the floor.

Ignis fell to his hands and knees beside him as numbness cascaded over his body. He’d killed not just Ravus, but Ardyn. _Ardyn._ The man who had held absolute power over his life for the past ten years and refused to let it go. He’d freed himself, but he’d still done so with violence. Perhaps he’d never truly escape.

“Ignis . . . ?” a soft voice asked from the middle of the room.

He looked up at Noctis, but everything around him was still cloaked in that unrelenting dark.

His vision hadn’t returned.

 

* * *

 

Ignis didn’t know how long he stayed there, crouching on the floor beside Ardyn’s body and trying to hold in the sobs that threatened to escape him. This—this must be his payment for what he’d done. His sight, in exchange for his freedom. The gods truly were cruel.

He heard Noctis’s voice again, barely audible even in the silent room. “Ignis . . . would you . . . do you think you could untie me?”

Ignis crawled to him, hands searching for the knife on the floor and finding nothing but empty space. He heard Noctis gasp, gave up on his search for the blade, and dragged himself the rest of the way, wrapping himself around Noctis and pressing his face against his blood-soaked shirt.

“Ignis, what is it?” Noctis asked, his voice hoarse and tired. “What’s wrong?”

“I,” Ignis began, and had to stop there, try to catch his breath and make sure his voice didn’t break. “I can’t see.”

Noctis answered with a little _Oh_ and Ignis felt him shift, as if he’d tried to pull his bound hands free. “You—you hit your head, didn’t you?”

Again, he had to fight to keep his voice steady. “Yes, but don’t worry about me.”

“Ignis—”

“Noctis, what he did to you was my fault,” Ignis said, his voice finally catching. “I could have prevented it. I shouldn’t have left you. Or I should never have come to you in the first place.”

His prince was silent, but moments later, Ignis felt a drop of water land on his cheek. He touched his face—he knew he wasn’t crying, he’d forced himself not to—and when he found his cheek damp, his hand drifted up to find Noctis’s face. Noctis leaned into his touch as another tear silently escaped his lashes.

For a while, neither of them moved, Ignis holding him and struggling to keep himself from letting his tears fall, Noctis crying quietly against him.

“Don’t say that,” he finally whispered in Ignis’s ear. “I don’t regret any of my time with you. Don’t ever think that I would.”

“You are the _prince_ ,” Ignis said, his voice thick. “He threatened to ruin your face. He might have killed you just to get to me. I should have _died_ long before you ever faced that possibility.”

He could feel Noctis shaking. “Don’t say you should have died,” his prince said. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if . . .” He shook his head. “You killed him. You defended him for so long, kept your work a secret from me, and yet you found the strength in you to end him forever. You saved both of us, Ignis. This wasn’t a mistake.”

“I can’t even—” Ignis braced a hand against his forehead. “I can’t even _see_ you anymore, Noctis.”

“But I’m here. And so are you.”

The sound of a door opening from the front of the apartment startled both of them, and they froze. Moments later, the bedroom door opened, too, and a familiar voice sighed in exasperation.

“I should’ve known,” Aranea said.

She strode halfway across the room, stopping when she reached the place where Ignis guessed Ardyn’s body lay, and made a thoughtful noise before standing up again and facing Ignis and Noctis. “Ignis,” she said. “You look awful. What the hell happened?”

“My vision’s left me,” Ignis said, pulling away from Noctis. “I hit my head, and—”

“Oh, shit.” She dropped to her knees in front of them—he felt the impact with the floor—and went silent for a moment. “Really? You can’t see anything at all?”

“Nothing.” When he told her this, fear stabbed through his chest again like knives, making him feel as if he’d collapse. He fought it back, closing his eyes.

Aranea drew a knife and cut Noctis free from the bedpost. Ignis felt him flinch. “There you go. So you’re the Prince of Lucis?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“Nice to meet you. All right, I didn’t realize we were dealing with something this serious, but—”

Ignis felt Noctis spring to his feet, despite his wounds. “Who else is there?” he demanded.

The room froze.

The temperature dropped, as if someone had opened a window in the middle of winter. A voice echoed through the room, and though Ignis couldn’t see the woman speaking, he could somehow _sense_ her presence more strongly than that of anyone else.

Even so, he felt Noctis relax almost immediately. “Gentiana,” he said.

“Yes, Prince Noctis.” A pause. “You wear the Ring of the Lucii, and it remains intact. That is why I am here.”

“W-what do you mean?” Noctis stammered.

“You have succeeded in keeping the power of kings out of the hands of Insomnia’s false god,” the woman—Gentiana—said. She crossed the room to where Noctis stood and kissed both his cheeks. “Therefore, I will stay by your side, and the side of your family.”

“My family . . . they aren’t with me anymore.”

“But it seems you have found another protector.” Gentiana moved so that she stood in front of Ignis. “I think, in time, you should consider him family as well.” She paused, lowering herself to the floor and addressing Ignis. “You have committed your share of crimes, but I see that you were coerced, and that your intentions to protect the prince are pure. I shall cleanse you, should you wish to serve him when he is king.”

She placed a hand on his forehead. The following sensation reminded him of standing under a stream of freezing water, and in the midst of it, he felt her lean closer.

“I may have saved you from following your master’s orders that first time,” she whispered, “but the decisions you made after that were all your own. Should you wish to join Prince Noctis, you have my approval.” A pause. “I can sense your loyalty to him.”

“Thank you,” he breathed.

She rose to her feet again.

“You have my blessing, Prince Noctis,” Gentiana said. “Call on me if you are ever again in need of aid.”

She stepped back from them, and the room returned to its normal temperature.

“What the hell was that?” asked Aranea.

Noctis released a small sigh. “A messenger. She started coming to me after I put on the ring that my father left me. She’s never said so, but I—I think she has some connection to the gods.”

“Damn. I believe it,” Aranea said, her eyes tracing the place where Gentiana had taken that last step back. “Well, in any case, we need to get you two out of here. You’re both in bad shape, and I’m guessing the police and the Crownsguard are on the hunt. They’ve already found Ravus’s body, I heard.”

“What do we do about Ardyn?” Ignis asked.

“Your Highness, you’re going to have to tell someone that you were attacked. That way they can fix you up and do whatever they need to do here,” she said. “And Ignis—”

“I gave them information about—him,” Ignis said quietly. “I suppose my task is to wait and hope they don’t throw me in prison, then?”

“I’ll make sure they don’t,” Noctis said.

“I brought Luna along,” Aranea told them. “She can make sure we all get to the Citadel alive. Ignis, car keys. I saw Ardyn’s Audi outside.”

Ignis pulled the keys from his pocket and placed them on the floor in front of him, and she strode forward to pick them up. She paused. “Ignis, here, give me your hand. Luna can help you once we get to the door.”

She kept a hand between his shoulder blades as they crossed the apartment, a sorry sight—two ex-assassins, one of them blind, and a prince bleeding from lacerations all over his body. They met Luna at the apartment’s front door. She fussed over Noctis’s wounds for a bit before turning to Ignis and placing a hand on his shoulder to guide him, while Aranea went ahead to the car.

As they settled themselves in the car, with Noctis and Luna in the backseat, Aranea driving, and Ignis beside her in the front passenger seat, Luna sat forward and spoke up. “Nyx is with the Kingsglaive. We can meet with him and the others at the Citadel to deliver Prince Noctis, and they will take care of us.”

“Good,” Aranea answered. “All right, everyone buckle up. We’re out of here.”

She started the car, putting a hand on Ignis’s arm in what he guessed was intended as a gesture of reassurance. Yet it didn’t dull that gnawing ache in his chest, and he dropped his head into his hands, trying not to listen to Noctis’s shuddering breaths from the seat behind him.

Aranea peeled out, taking them toward the Citadel.

 

* * *

 

The car’s doors opened, and beyond the threshold, Ignis could hear more voices. Unidentified voices. Aranea opened her door without taking the keys out of the ignition and shouted over the car, “Hey, back off, we’ve got two injured.”

“And we’ve got orders to take the prince,” a voice said.

“Hold up.” This came from Nyx, whose footsteps began to advance toward the car. “I know them. They’ll be coming with us, too.”

A moment later, with no warning at all, a pair of arms slipped around Ignis’s waist, followed by a cheek pressed against his shoulder blade. “Noct . . .” he began.

“I have to go.”

“Your Highness,” Ignis said, desperate. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t call me that, remember?”

“Noctis—”

He felt his prince’s warmth leave him again as the soldiers tugged him away, and he stood there, unmoored, unsure as to which direction Noctis had even gone. He didn’t want to get used to this.

Aranea circled the car to stand at his side. He didn’t know where Luna was, but he could hear another, heavier set of footsteps approaching.

“Ulric,” Aranea said. “What’s the verdict?”

“Don’t have one yet,” Nyx said, “but don’t worry. We’ll take care of everything from here.”

Ignis’s own fate was in the hands of so many other people. He stood to lose everything, and he could do nothing but wait.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a song: Ludovico Einaudi's [Svanire.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=scRS7pkhGSw) The title means "fade" or "evanesce."

Thick late-morning light shone through the windows in the Citadel’s library, falling over the tables and hundreds of shelves of books. Ignis occupied one such table, squinting at the pages of a book he’d picked up several days ago. The words kept blurring, seeming to shiver on the page, making his eyes ache. He’d had to stop and focus on something else several times.

His near-constant headaches made it difficult to concentrate. His eyes refused to focus sometimes, and strong light or too much movement often exacerbated the symptoms. Noctis had had to drag him out of nearly all of the gatherings he’d been called to, make excuses for him, rescue him before his headaches made the situation dire.

His vision had indeed returned, but slowly, and with setbacks. First there was the matter of needing someone to escort him everywhere he went. Usually it was Noctis or Luna or a guard of the Kingsglaive. Even the people he didn’t know well had been polite and respectful to him, but that didn’t change the fact that he needed assistance just to get around when he hadn’t before. Then he’d started to perceive shadows and shapes, barely, and he’d thought he was hallucinating. He had hardly slept during that time, but he hadn’t been able to get up and take a walk or pace the room to let the thoughts in his head settle. Being confined to his quarters—even with Noctis there—had sometimes felt suffocating.

Now, though his vision had nearly returned to normal, his eyes often ached, and the world looked blurry despite his glasses. Reading was an ordeal, speaking with other people was difficult, and concentrating was dreadful. Besides, his head hurt most of the time.

At the moment, Ignis wanted to go back to bed, but then, he’d never sleep without Noctis at his side. Nightmares usually fragmented his sleep now, like poisoned blades, and without Noctis to calm him after they’d passed, he knew he wouldn’t be able to rest more than a few minutes.

Through all of this, Noctis had certainly seen him at his worst.

Ignis turned back to the book on the table. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent this long on a single book—hell, on a single _page._ He’d used to go through stacks of them during his training at the Citadel, when he was younger. Or so Noctis had told him. His memories of that time still hadn’t returned.

He heard footsteps behind him, and a moment later a pair of arms slipped around him, while a voice whispered in his ear. “Hey,” Noctis said softly. “How’s it going?”

“Not well,” Ignis said. “I can’t seem to focus.”

“I don’t think I’m going to be able to help you with that,” Noctis replied, kissing his cheek. Ignis could almost hear the smirk in his voice. But when he spoke next, his tone had turned serious. “Unless—do you want me to read to you? Might make things easier.”

“You’re distracting when you read,” Ignis said. He reached up to trace his thumb along Noct’s lower lip. “That mouth of yours catches me off guard.”

“Oh, does it?” Smirking again, Noctis leaned in and kissed him, softly. Ignis endured this for a few moments before gently pushing him away.

“Noct, forgive me, but now isn’t the time.”

Noctis slid into the chair beside Ignis, sitting in it sideways to face him. “Okay,” he said, sounding only a little disappointed. “So, um . . . What’re you reading, anyway? You think you could summarize for me?”

“I suppose.” Ignis glanced down at the book, whose text seemed to be taunting him. “It’s about the history of the gods and the Lucian kings. But I admit I haven’t made very much progress. The opening sections describe times hundreds of years before we were born.” Noctis was still looking at him with that faint smile on his face. “What is it?”

“Did I mention how stunning you are?” Noctis asked.

“I believe you did, yes.”

Noctis shoved his shoulder playfully. “Well, I’m going to say it again, then. You’re beautiful when you’re trying to concentrate.” When Ignis smiled, Noctis brushed lips against his again, a short kiss that gradually became more and longer. Ignis’s fingers threaded through Noct’s soft dark hair, and Noct had hands braced on his chest.

The door to the library opened.

Ignis jerked back, and Noctis nearly fell on top of him. But the servant who entered the room paid them no attention, moving between shelves of books and vanishing.

“They know, don’t they?” Ignis asked quietly.

Noctis nodded. “Yeah, so it’s . . . fine.”

“But do they approve?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Noctis said. “It’s not like I announced my engagement to you or something. It’s just—this.”

Ignis hesitated. “Noct—”

“And don’t even ask me if we’re planning to be engaged,” Noctis said. “It’s too early for that.” He reached out to take one of Ignis’s hands. “So, do you want to train with me instead? I need a break, and I think you do, too. I’ll go easy on you,” he added with a grin.

“You’re saying that despite the fact that I’m an ex-assassin?”

“I’m saying that because I know you still have a headache and I don’t want to make it worse.” Noctis ran a thumb across his cheekbone. “But I think it’ll be better than fighting with this book for another hour. C’mon.”

“Noct, my apologies, but I don’t have the energy.”

“Aw, you’re going to make me train with Gladio again? He’ll kick my ass,” Noctis protested. “Okay. Sure. Fine. I’ll leave you alone. Will I see you later?”

“Of course.”

Noctis leaned forward to kiss him goodbye before he stood up and left the library.

Alone—or nearly alone, considering the servant who’d entered earlier was still in the library—Ignis stared at the text again. He tried once again to concentrate on the words, but they still blurred every time he looked too intensely at them.

The first thing he’d had to read when his vision returned had been a report that Aranea had dumped on a desk in front of him, not long after Noctis had announced his release and told him that he’d be allowed to stay at the Citadel. She’d had a grim look on her face and said simply, “I think you should see this,” and stood aside while he tried to read it.

He’d felt confused at first. It looked like a long list of names and locations with no connection to one another, each one crossed out and nearly illegible. But the end of the list had consisted of several names he recognized, names of Crownsguard or Kingsglaive members, and—there, he could make out _Lucis Caelum,_ twice.

In between them, while his eyes had teared up from squinting at the text, he’d read _Scientia._ Another line of text crossed out.

“Scientia,” he’d breathed.

 _You’re Ignis Scientia, aren’t you?_ Noctis’s voice said in his head. _My dad knew your uncle, I think._

“Aranea, what is the meaning of this?” he’d asked, rising from his chair even though the very motion made him dizzy. He’d known right away what it meant, but somehow he’d hoped—like a damned fool—that she would give him a different answer.

“We found this in Ardyn’s office. He kept extensive paperwork on the targets he went after. For every one of these, there was practically another binder.” Aranea shook her head. “And the one you’re looking at? Yeah. Ardyn assigned him to _me._ Wanted to turn us against each other.” She closed her eyes. “So I’m sorry. I should’ve done what you did. Left. But I didn’t.”

Ignis was silent. He felt as if his blood was on fire, yet he didn’t know whom to take that anger out on. Not Ardyn, of course. Not Aranea. She’d just done her job, the same as Ignis had done with all his targets.

“You can hit me if you need to,” Aranea said. “I can take it. Obviously.”

The thought of hitting anything made his headache even worse. Ignis pressed a hand to his forehead and sat back down.

“I lost ten years of my life because of him,” he breathed.

“But now you’re here. And you’ve got Noctis—His Highness, I mean.”

“I’m afraid of what I’ve done to him.”

“Just don’t leave his side if you can help it. I’ll be here if you need to scream at someone,” Aranea said. “Everything is Ardyn’s fault, if you ask me. He targeted everyone with connections to the Citadel, all so he could have access to the power that the royal family had. But he was manipulative as all hell when it came down to it. Looks a little like the blame’s shifted, sometimes.”

“We still killed, Aranea. Regardless of whether it was Ardyn’s fault.”

She sighed. “Yeah. We did.”

Ignis had lain awake for hours thinking about this. About whether he was at fault for taking down Ardyn’s targets, and whether Noctis would ever really forgive him.

But that night was the first night Noctis had visited him. In the very early hours of the morning, his prince had slipped into his quarters and taken up the spot beside him in the bed. Ignis had apologized to him again, until Noctis silenced him with a kiss and told him it wasn’t his fault. They’d spent nearly every night together after that, and though sometimes he could still feel that uncontrollable heat flaring between them again, anything but sleep made his head ache. When he’d discovered this, he’d apologized to Noctis, who’d soothed him and told him not to worry.

He’d wondered how Noctis was making it through the nights after what he’d been through with Ardyn. The police had taken Ardyn’s body from his apartment, treating the whole area as a crime scene, and Noctis had moved completely out of the place to stay in his rooms at the Citadel. Ignis imagined that if he were Noctis, he wouldn’t have wanted to go anywhere near the place ever again.

But one of his doctors had prescribed him sleeping pills. He’d been sleeping every night, even when Ignis woke time after time from nightmares. Only when Ignis had remained awake once long enough to see Noctis slip into the bathroom and hear the water running had he realized something was up. He’d leaned on the door frame, squinting at the sudden light in the room, while Noctis had the pill in his hand, halfway to his mouth. Startled at the sight of Ignis, he had dropped it into the sink.

“Shit—oh, gods, Ignis, I’m—I swear this isn’t—” he’d stammered, his face flushed, his eyes wide. “These were prescribed to me, I promise.”

“It’s all right, Noct.” Ignis had fished the pill out of the sink and handed it back to him. “I can’t sleep, either. I don’t blame you.”

For a moment, Noctis had just stared back at him in silence. As if he’d left his body and returned to the apartment where Ardyn had tortured him. Where Ardyn had blinded Ignis and Ignis had killed Ardyn. Ignis reached out to touch his shoulder and found his whole body rigid.

He whispered Noctis’s name, brushed his bottom lip with a thumb. “Please. Take this and come back to bed,” he said, cupping the hand that held the pill.

Noctis never talked about what had happened before Ignis had arrived at the apartment. Ignis could only wonder what Ardyn had done to him, what kind of agony he’d been in.

A noise from the shelves startled him out of his thoughts. He looked back, but from here he couldn’t see the servant who’d come in after Noctis. He tried to return to reading, but the moment he looked back at the lines of text, another stab of pain shot through his skull. With a long sigh, he decided to take Noctis’s advice, and left.

 

* * *

 

Silence surrounded the Citadel’s infirmary later that afternoon, and weak light slanted into the room and across the floor. Ignis sat on the edge of one of the medical cots, his hands clasped, his elbows braced on his knees. Most of the staff had left by now, but a select few of them stayed around every day to take care of the prince and his new guard.

Ignis had been through examinations day in and day out as the medical staff tried to figure out how to minimize his pain and return his vision to normal. They’d made progress, but it had taken a long time, and besides, he worried more about Noctis than anything. The first few times he’d been in the infirmary—after he’d finally been cleared to leave Insomnia’s main hospital—the tests had run long, and Noctis had come in before he’d left. By the time they’d finished with him, he could hear his prince crying in one of the examination rooms. He’d wanted to stay. The staff had told him it was best if he didn’t.

Today he was here without Noctis, as usual. Their appointments were kept apart by at least a few hours. Ignis guessed they didn’t want him to see their prince distressed, in pain.

The two of them had stayed apart for a couple of weeks after everything else had settled down. Ignis had rarely seen his prince—no one had scheduled any meetings at which they might’ve run into each other, and neither of them had made the effort to see the other. Ignis had, after all, still felt embarrassed about his role in the entire incident, and besides, he hadn’t wanted to cross any boundaries.

But that one night, Noctis had come to him. Had slipped into his room during that still morning darkness and asked to stay. Ignis had agreed.

They’d both been exhausted the first night, so they’d both simply slept. The night after that, however, Noctis had returned to him just before he turned the lights out. They’d spent that night sitting across from one another on the bed, the low light spilling over the room, their voices low as they reconciled and spoke of things about which they’d previously kept silent, their hands twined between them. This was the only night on which Noctis had spoken of his scars, even let Ignis see them—at that time, some of them were still barely healed, red and puckered against the pale skin of his arms and chest and torso. The medics at the Citadel had taken care in healing the cut on his face, yet it still hadn’t completely faded.

Noctis had let him touch each of those scars, even after an initial moment of hesitation, and in the soft light, Ignis had told him how beautiful he was, whispered proclamations of love for his prince. Noctis had fallen silent, tears brimming in his eyes, and immersed himself in Ignis’s warmth. For a while they had done nothing but hold each other.

They had spent their nights together since, the one time of day that Ignis could count on and look forward to. He missed Noctis even now.

Luna rounded the corner ahead of him, striding down the rows of medical cots and screens that had been pushed aside. She greeted Ignis with a sympathetic smile. “How has today been?”

“It’s been one continuous headache, quite literally.” Ignis sat up straight to face her. “Are they letting you examine patients now?”

“Only you two. They want to make sure I’m competent.” She clasped her hands in front of her, and as she continued speaking, Ignis noticed a subtle sadness in her expression. “And of course, there are always at least three of us in the room with Prince Noctis. He needs all the care he can get.”

“Indeed.”

Luna hesitated. “Then, is everything well between the two of you?”

“Not quite,” Ignis said, thinking of the night he’d caught Noctis in the bathroom with his sleeping pills, the times he’d had to stop midway to taking Noctis to bed because of his headaches. He didn’t want to discuss those things now. “Luna, did Ravus ever find out that you . . . ?”

She closed her eyes and shook her head, her expression so genuinely sad that Ignis could almost forget the dismal, bloody legacy Ravus had left behind. For a moment, she was simply mourning her brother. “He had already left this world when they found him. They . . . they determined that he was the suspect they had been looking for in Regis’s case, and they had his body burned.” She pressed her fingers to her temple. “He was so bent on revenge.”

Ignis could think of nothing to say. He wondered if they had told Luna how he had died. In those spare minutes he’d spent in the interrogation room, he’d confessed to killing Ravus—along with all the others. He was certain he would have spent the rest of his life in a cell if Noctis hadn’t had the authority to pardon him.

“Luna, you have my apologies.” After all he’d done, it meant practically nothing, but it was all he had.

“No, please. It’s all right,” Luna said, pressing a hand to her chest. “I only hope that he finds peace in death.”

One of the other medics walked in after she had said this, sparing Ignis the struggle of trying to think of some way to respond. She and Luna spent the next few minutes trading off asking Ignis questions and giving him tests, asking him to read things on the opposite wall of the infirmary or up close. Eventually he gave up and dropped his head into his hands. The two of them relented.

“You’re obviously still not completely healed yet,” the medic said. “We’ll give it a few more weeks. Take it easy.”

Ignis waited a moment to gather his courage before asking the question that surfaced in his mind. “Will I heal completely?” He dragged a hand through his hair, blinking against the dull throb of an oncoming headache. “It’s been several weeks already.”

“I can’t say for certain, but you should be able to come back from this.” The medic, who’d stood across the room, came around the curtain beside the cot again. “You were able to regain your sight, after all. The injury must not have been as serious as it first appeared.”

Ignis hummed a reply. Already he was thinking about Noctis, missing Noctis, needing Noctis. He wanted to recover, if only for his prince.

“You should go back to your quarters and get some rest,” Luna said. “It will take longer for you to heal if you overextend yourself, after all.”

“All right. Thank you.” He stood, slowly, to stave off any dizziness. “And Luna—you take care, as well. I know things can’t be terribly easy right now.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment.

Ignis returned to his rooms, took a couple of pills with a glass of water, and lay down. His quarters at the Citadel were several times larger than his quarters at the keep had been, and much less familiar, but he could relax there, let his guard down. His place at the keep had been Ardyn’s territory, door locked or no, and the single window had been much too small. The room at the Citadel had several windows, each overlooking Insomnia, and at the moment, he could glimpse the setting sun casting golden halos around the buildings outside.

Here he could sleep off his headaches without trying to keep one eye open. The only other key was with Noctis, who used it only to slip in at night and keep him company.

He waited for the medicine to take effect, and he was drifting in and out of sleep when Noctis came in. Ignis heard the click of the door opening and closing, followed by soft footsteps. He pushed himself halfway to a sitting position and found Noctis standing on the threshold of the bedroom.

“Noct,” he said, his voice a half whisper. “How are you? How was the appointment?”

Noctis sighed and crossed the room to sit on the other side of the bed, his form a shadow. “I’m sleepy,” he said. “The appointment was hard to get through.”

“Was there any news?”

“They took me off the sleeping pills,” Noctis said. “So, um . . . Sorry if I wake you up.”

Ignis shook his head. “You know you don’t have to worry about that, Noct.”

They sat in silence for a few moments—the silence of not knowing what to say, one that was new and awkward for both of them. Finally Ignis reached for Noctis’s hand. “If you would, Noct . . . Do you think you could tell me something else about how things used to be?”

“Sure,” Noctis said. He settled back against the pillows and stretched out, and Ignis joined him.

He launched into a story that Ignis didn’t remember but believed wholeheartedly, something about Noctis getting lost during a Citadel event, back before he was the center of attention and when they’d mostly just had to behave themselves for a few hours, and Regis sending Ignis to bring him back. He hadn’t wanted to go back, he’d said, but Ignis had convinced him, with stories, with promises.

Ignis closed his eyes, fighting the tears that had sprung up in them. “Sounds a lot like you and me now,” he said. “Only the other way around.”

Noctis leaned against his shoulder with a low murmur of agreement and moved on to another story. He continued until his voice grew hoarse with drowsiness, until Ignis found himself unable to concentrate on anything but his prince beside him. He drifted off into sleep this way, deep and dreamless.

 

* * *

 

_Ignis – Meet me in the training room at eleven. I have something for you. Noctis._

His prince was absent when Ignis woke, but he’d left a note on the nightstand. That was unusual for him, but now that he was preparing for his official coronation as the King of Lucis, Noctis was away more and more often, sometimes at strange hours. Besides, the combination of stress and responsibility had driven him to seek solitude more often.

Ignis dressed and walked through the Citadel, an attempt to look around without getting a headache, and stopped in the library for a while to read a few more pages of the books he’d abandoned the day before. Just before eleven, he left for the training room.

Noctis was nowhere to be seen at first. Ignis wondered if perhaps he’d taken a wrong turn somewhere, if his eyes had deceived him, but several minutes later—11:07, his watch told him—the door burst open and Noctis practically fell into the room, wrapping himself around Ignis as soon as they were close enough.

“Ignis, I—shit, I was running late, I’m sorry—I promise I wouldn’t leave you here alone on purpose,” Noctis stammered.

Ignis ran a hand up and down his spine, taking in his warmth. “It’s all right, Noct. You’re the prince. I can wait for you.”

“Mmm.” Noctis’s nose brushed the base of his throat. “Sorry I left this morning. I woke up and I wanted to do this for you.”

“Do what for me, Noct?” Ignis resisted the urge to keep touching him, to let his hands find the slope of Noctis’s shoulders and weave through the strands of his silky black hair. Now was not the time. He needed to focus.

“So, um.” Noctis pulled away and reached for something sheathed at his hip, drawing out two beautifully crafted silver blades, short and sharp and intricate. He offered the hilts of the weapons to Ignis. “These are for you, if you agree to join my Kingsglaive. To protect me.”

He met Ignis’s eyes, and whatever he saw there made him shake his head. “You don’t have to say yes. If you don’t want to.”

“Of course I want to,” Ignis said. “It’s just that . . .” He looked down at the blades. There were nights, terrible nights, when he could feel daggers in his hands again, when he stood before Noctis in his apartment. When he carried out the assignment Ardyn had given him and woke up nearly screaming. And some days he could still feel the muscle and tissue ripping as he twisted the knife in Ardyn’s chest. He already had so much blood on his hands, but . . .

He wanted to protect Noctis. He couldn’t succumb to powerlessness again.

“I know,” Noctis said. “But you saved me. And you would’ve been a part of my court anyway, if all this hadn’t happened. I trust you.”

Ignis turned his hands palm-up, and Noctis pressed the handles of the blades into them.

“What about the others?” Ignis asked. “Do they trust me?”

“Just give them time,” Noctis said. He passed the sheaths to Ignis, who carefully slid the blades into them. Stepping closer, he brushed his lips against Ignis’s. “Gentiana trusts you.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“Yep.”

_I shall cleanse you, should you wish to serve him when he is king._

“I can hardly disregard the words of someone so close to the gods,” Ignis said. “Nor you.”

“But it’s your decision,” Noctis replied. “I know you’ve been through a lot.”

Ignis nodded, looking down at the two knives in his hands. They were deadly, of course, but they were also beautiful, untainted. Noctis had given them to him in good faith, and Gentiana had given him the chance to start over. He could take them both and never look back.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Yes. I will join your Kingsglaive, Noctis. I will do my best to protect you until the end.”

Noctis took the knives and placed them carefully on the floor beside them. He slid his arms around Ignis, pulling him close, until there was no space left between them.

“If you want, we can just try to start over for a while,” he said softly.

Ignis held his prince close. Focused on his warmth, the shape of him, thought of the nights they’d shared. Thought of the time they’d lost.

“I’d like that,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really can't believe this is the last chapter. I thought I'd be done around July, but now that I've been working on this for over five months instead, it feels like it's become a constant.
> 
> I had an outline that I wrote way back in April, but this story ended up taking so many detours that the final outcome doesn't look much like what I had planned at all. It was kind of terrifying, but exciting, to see where the path led. (With that said, though, I don't think I've ever ended up with so many deleted scenes in my life.)
> 
> Finally, thanks to everyone for your support! I know it's cliche, but I wouldn't have made it this far without you XD
> 
> And if you want, feel free to come chill with me on [tumblr](https://iridiumring92.tumblr.com/) :)


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